Porcelain Doll
by anonmachine
Summary: A betrayal shakes the Order, and Hermione is captured by the other side. Snape finds himself caught in the role of DE he must play. Draco's sacrifice may help them, but with spies everywhere, it's getting harder to tell friend from foe. MFA5 nominee
1. I: Captivus

Last edited: 04 September 2007  
**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE (PLEASE READ):** This is not a chronologically ordered fic. Rather, it is a situation based one, with a strong character-centric narration. This piece of fiction _cannot_ be perceived coherently if one does not take into appreciation the _entirety _of the work. This fic is broken into a few parts, each having their own theme, central character and timeline.

Yes, things get a little complicated sometimes and some things might not make sense at first. Have patience and trust that the pieces of the puzzle will somehow fit together at the end, but most of all, enjoy the journey.

**Note: **This is set post Hermione's Hogwarts years. Non-HBP or HD compliant.

**Disclaimer: **I do not assume any legal liability of the characters or settings here. All creative property belongs to JKR, excluding the plot to this fic. I seek no monetary gains and all recognisable claim of JKR is intended for entertainment use only and will be returned safe and sound.

[[Nominated in Round Five of the Multifaceted Harry Potter Fanfiction Awards.

* * *

**Porcelain Doll  
**_I. Captivus  
_(Captured)

They were in the study, sitting in various poses of staged leisure. Remus leaned against the bookshelf, an old book propped in one large hand. Every now and then, he turned the page, the dry parchment crackling slightly. The only thing that betrayed the fact that he was not actually reading the tome was the way his eyes were staring blankly at the centre of the page. He shifted a little when the rack that was digging into his lower back proved to be too uncomfortable to ignore.

Ginny sat curled up beside Harry, fingers tangled in her hair, her expression showing that she was preoccupied with her own thoughts. The Boy Who Lived stared directly into the flames burning merrily in the grate, a long limb slung over the girl's shoulder. She blinked away her reverie and glanced at Harry's frown before pressing herself closer to him. He half-turned towards her, his emerald eyes blinking tiredly to look at her. She gave him a tiny encouraging smile, which he returned half-heartedly, the crow's feet cutting deep into his skin.

'I blame myself,' he said quietly, casting his gaze away, unwilling to see the condemnation in her eyes. She closed her eyes briefly and sighed. She reached over to tuck her thumb gently under his chin, tipping his face towards her, forcing him to meet her open gaze.

From his corner, Remus looked up from his reading and frowned. He knew how troubled the young man was; how much guilt he placed upon his own shoulders. He snapped the book shut and turned to slip the book back into its place on the shelf. 'No one blames you for what happened, Harry. Just…let it go,' the older man said tiredly, lacking conviction.

The redhead glanced at the wizard and absently noted the sallow complexion and the dark circles around his eyes. The moon was burgeoning and in a few days, he would face the horrors of transformation.

She turned to Harry. 'Really, it's true. No one blames you.'

He shook himself angrily from her gentle caress. 'I can't let it go,' he said roughly, looking at the carpet. 'I can't let her go. Don't you understand, Ginny?' He peered at her with heavily hooded eyes, his voice scratching the surface of desperation. 'She was – _is_,' he corrected firmly, 'my friend. My best friend.' He pulled away and stood rigidly with his back towards the youngest Weasley. 'They told me to move on,' he confided quietly. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, straining to hear him. 'They told me to forget her and move on. I… I can't…,' his voice broke and he struggled to finish his sentence, 'I can't just forget her. It's my fault – don't you see? They went after her to get to me.'

Ginny got to her feet silently and placed the palms of her hands flat against his back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles, hoping to ease his tension and guilt. She cast a quick look across the room at their ex-professor, silently requesting for some privacy. He obliged, sending an understanding look in return.

'No one blames you,' she repeated firmly as the door shut behind Remus. 'Hermione understood the implications and adversities that came along with her being your friend. She knew the dangers she'd be in if she stayed at your side. But Harry, she still counted herself as your friend, even knowing full well all the risks and the things that could and would happen… she loved you, Harry.' She finished, letting her words taper off into the silence of the room.

'You talk about her as if she is dead,' he remarked emotionlessly after a moment. He turned, stilling the movement of her hands with his.

'Harry? I don't… Ouch – you're hurting me! Let go!'

His grip tightened and he glared angrily at her. 'You talk about her in the past tense. What? You think she's dead then?' he hissed.

Tears sprang into her eyes as she tried to wrench her wrists free. 'Be reasonable, please. It's been months now. And – '

He interrupted her, yanking on her captured wrists to bring her closer and whispered with cold anger into her ear, 'And what, Ginny? She _should _be dead by now?' his tone bitterly emphasising the word "should". 'Was that what you were about to say? _Wanted _to say?' Pinning her with one last look, he released her and spun away.

The sudden rage that possessed him left, leaving him an empty shell, his shoulders slumped in despair. She stared at his back as she massaged the blood back into her fingers. The splotchy red marks encircling her wrists fading rapidly.

'Harry… I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.' Her apology was tentative, as if she was testing the waters.

He drew in sharp breath which he let out noisily. 'No, I'm sorry.' But as she took a step towards him, the soles of her shoes whispering over the rug, he glanced at her past his shoulder. 'Stop… don't…I… I want to be alone for a bit.'

She was motionless for a few seconds, momentarily hurt at his brusqueness. 'Alright… I'll be in my room, then.' She paused awkwardly, hoping for a reply. When she received none, she quietly exited the study, pulling the doors shut behind her.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, impatiently brushing away the dark curtain back from his eyes. He sighed heavily and gazed listlessly around the room for something to occupy his mind. The study was very much the same as the day _she_ had disappeared. No one could bring themselves to move the things there, as if it was improper, that it was _her _place.

Some things reminded Harry painfully of her absence – the neat pile of books stacked at one corner of the desk; the pot of ink with no black smudges on its lid; the array of quills lining one side of the desk… He smiled pensively when he remembered her peculiar habit of arranging and grouping her numerous quills by colour and length before she started work. He reached, as if to pick up one of the grey quills but the fingers hovered inches above the feather as he hesitated. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to touch her things – to _violate _her things - as it didn't feel right to come into the study with the absence of her sitting hunched at the desk, scribbling furiously away. It seemed to be an intrusion of her – of the _memories_ of her. Hermione was – _is -_ his mind hurriedly corrected – rather possessive about her belongings and Harry was reluctant to release that small shard of hope that the bushy-haired witch would come bustling in and tell him off, for her fingering her stationery.

Slowly, he withdrew his hand, letting his arm fall limply to his side. He jumped when lightning stabbed the sky and the guttural boom of thunder shook number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The incessant pitter-patter of the large raindrops drumming the roof almost cloaked the loud crack of someone Apparating just beyond the bounds of the anti-Apparition wards. In three quick strides, Harry's nose was pressed against the cold window as he peered into the crying night.

The dark figure beneath the wiry tree staggered. The stifling darkness of night was briefly lifted by another flash of lighting and Harry's heart constricted when he saw the dark robed figure. The masked wizard slipped on a puddle, muddying his badly torn robes. He swayed like a drunkard as he tried to regain his footing, the large bundle in his arms obviously giving him more than a little trouble. He lost his balance when his foot disappeared into the wet ground. He stumbled and sank almost gracefully to one knee, his porcelain mask slipping off.

Harry watched, rooted to the spot, as one pale spidery hand reached up to grasp the white thing and flung it viciously into the bushes. It snagged on an outstretched branch and hung there, swinging like a pendulum spot of white in the gloom. The man in the rain bent forward, the black locks stringing together and shrouding his face. The wizard seemed not to pay heed that he was kneeling in the mud as he gently pulled away the coverings of the bundle. In the study, Harry failed to stifle a gasp and he took a step back in shock at seeing the familiar curls springing free from their dark confines – Hermione.

The drenched wizard peered over his hooked-nose as he checked his charge's neck for a pulse. Her head lolled in his arms and she lay quite still, almost doll-like. His expression was grim as he tucked the wrappings tighter around the small frame and glanced up at the house.

It seemed as if he reached out with his Legilimency skills to pierce the gloom. The black orbs, improbably as it may seem, locked onto Harry's and snapped him into action. The young man left the room in a whirlwind of swishing robes and he bounded down the stairs, jarring his knees painfully when he leapt the last few steps. His wand was already out of his pocket and with a few complicated incantations and wand movements, he dropped the wards and pulled open the front door and stepped into the embrace of night.

'_Lumos!' _

He almost fell when his trainers failed to properly grip the slick ground. He ignored the water clinging to his glasses and drenching his robes, making them hang heavily to his body. His breath fanned out in front of him in a white mist, the edges of the curls sneaking discreetly into the chilly night.

He skidded to a stop before the wizard, suddenly unsure. The tall man stared down at him, his expression carefully devoid of any emotion. 'Take her, Potter.'

Years of tutelage under the harsh Potions Master made Harry raise his arms automatically as his body reacted to the cold commanding tone the man had used. She was barely settled into his arms when she started to thrash about wildly, crying out wordlessly. She moaned piteously in Harry's Quidditch-strengthened arms and trembled violently. She felt horribly light in his hold, but her flailing made it hard for him to carry her.

'I can't!' he said desperately, raising his voice to be head over the storm and her incoherent cries. 'She won't keep still!'

Snape glanced dispassionately at him before reaching into the deep recess of his robes to pull out his wand. 'Shall I cast an Incarcerous spell on her then?'

'No!' cried Harry, outraged. He wrapped his arms protectively around the witch and threw his former teacher a dark look. 'Don't you bloody dare, Snape!' But the man already brushed past him, not staying to hear his tirade. With analytical detachment, Harry noted that the older wizard favoured his left leg more than the other. Hermione whimpered in his arms, her energy spent.

'Shh, Mione. It's me… It's Harry,' he whispered softly. At the mention of his name, she let out an ear-splitting shriek and started anew, writhing so furiously that Harry was obliged to stop and kneel, his shaking hands fumbling to pull away the heavy cloak that covered her face.

A hand stopped his numb fingers and drew them away. 'Leave it,' the tone was tired, but the dark eyes held him captive.

'But, sir… Hermione – she won't stop struggling. I…I just wanted her to know it was me…'

Snape didn't even glance at her. 'She is still now.'

Harry brushed his wet hair aside and looked down. Indeed, she lay completely motionless; half in the mud and half draped across his lap.

'Give her to me.' Severus did not wait for a reply or a protest. He reached and with masked gentleness, scooped her into his arms. Again, Hermione started to writhe and started to moan lowly. 'Shush there, silly girl.' Immediately, she quietened and lay compliantly still.

Harry kept pace with the older man, hovering awkwardly by his side. Snape kept his gaze forward and would not meet his eye. Long thin arms snaked from within the folds of the bundle and wrapped themselves around his neck. Disfigured fingers, terribly twisted and swollen, curling tightly into the soaked lapels at the wizard's collar. Harry took a half-step back with shock when he saw when he saw the skeletal arms – paper thin skin stretched taut over the bones, the skin so white it was almost translucent; the blue network of veins that spidered clearly beneath the epidermis was easily visible, and angry red lines criss-crossed abundantly, the deep cuts healing slowly, marring the pale flesh.

If Snape noticed Harry's adverse reaction at all, he gave no indication. Instead, when he turned to the young man at his side, his Potions Master persona was firmly in place. 'My hands are clearly occupied, Potter. Open the door.'

Harry carefully edged around the older man, mindful to avoid jostling into the charge in his arms, and twisted the handle and pushed. The immediate rush of warm air seeped through their sodden clothes but failed completely to touch the inner core of their bones.

'I'll take her to her room. I suggest that you hasten to wake the –'

A voice laden with disbelief interrupted suddenly, 'Oh God, is that… is it?'

They whirled to face the owner of the voice, Snape's head snapping so fast that the wet locks whipped around his face. The colour drained from Ron's face as he approached hesitantly. The fists caught in the folds of Snape's dark robes tightened momentarily and the three men heard a small intake of breath before the fingers loosened their hold on the dark material and the arms slipped slowly down his chest.

'Mione, Mione, Mione…' Ron's voice was weak as he reached for the marble hand, his fingers unsuccessfully trying to slip themselves into her limp hold.

'Step aside, Weasley,' the man snarled, brushing past the teenager. He swiftly took to the stairs, throwing a reminder over his shoulder to Harry, 'Wake the others. Immediately!'

Harry met Ron's wide-eyed stare. 'You're wet,' the redhead noted the obvious and fished around in his too-short pyjamas for his wand and cast a quick Drying charm.

'Thanks,' his friend muttered before starting up the stairs, taking three at a time.

Minutes later found all the occupants of number Twelve Grimmauld Place gathered in the living room, in various stages of undress. Molly clutched her dressing gown with one hand, the other in her hair, anxiously patting the curlers as she fidgeted beside a worn-looking Arthur Weasley.

'What's all the ruckus about, 'Arry?' asked one of the twins who was perched in an armchair, rubbing his eyes. Harry found himself the centre of attention as all eyes landed on him and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly incredibly nervous. The current situation, the unexpected reappearance of Hermione hit him abruptly and he took a few steadying breaths to buy enough time for his mind to quickly organise his thoughts and form an appropriately articulate response.

'She's back,' was all he could manage. They stared at him in silence before launching questions at the same time, raising their voices.

'-Who's back?'

'-You don't mean Mione?'

'-When was this?'

The noise rose and they converged on him as a single body, demanding some proper explanations. Harry struggled to cope with the onslaught, only managing to answer a question halfway before being interrupted by another.

'That is enough,' a quiet voice commanded, the dark rich quality of the tones reverberated around the room. The confused chatter died away as Snape commandeered their attention.

'What is he doing here?' muttered Fred angrily, sharing a significant look with his twin, who already had his wand in hand.

'The git brought Mione in!' Ron exclaimed, perhaps to the defence of his former teacher, but he shrank away at the smouldering gaze he received.

George rounded on the wizard at once, 'You brought her in? You utter bastard! Took you long enough! How many weeks and months, _sir,_' he spat derisively, 'before your Lord grew tired of her? Before you collected her and returned her to us, used and abused? You think you can garner our trust again, just because you waltz in here carrying our friend? Slytherin scum, your mother dredged you up from the deepest pits of Hell!'

'George!' his mother exclaimed sharply, darting a look at the angry wizard.

'Don't be presumptuous, Weasley,' Snape retorted coldly. 'I do not have to explain my actions to a child.'

Fred managed to restrain his swearing and cursing brother from pouncing. Snape had drawn his wand, but its tip was cast to the ground and he regarded them with a satirical smile that seemed to infuriate the young man further.

'Enough,' Harry said quietly, taking a step closer to the man he was supposed to despise. The anger flared momentarily in George's eyes before it died. He scowled and yanked his arm free from this brother. Snape met the challenging glare and raised an eloquent eyebrow. His ex-student meet his intense stare defiantly, there was a tense moment when both men refused to back down.

The younger wizard was forced to look away when his sister laid a hand on his arm gently. 'Please, George.'

Snape treated the assembly with a sneer. He glanced cursorily past the faces and he nodded curtly to Remus, acknowledging him. He stood in the centre of the room, his back ramrod straight and his fingers curled into a tight fist as he drew in a deep breath before releasing it, relaxing his finger as he exhaled.

'Miss Granger is back,' he said finally, perhaps unnecessarily, but the faces were bright with renewed amazement and in the corner of his eye, he caught Molly clutching at her husband, crying silently in relief. He swept the room with his black eyes, holding each of their gazes briefly before moving to the next person. 'Her status is critical as she is gravely injured.' He lifted a hand to stem the oncoming questions and continued in the same monotone, 'She is very weak, in both mind and body. She has suffered countless hours of the Cruciatus curse. I suggest that you abstain from visiting her at the moment - let her rest and recover sufficiently before subjecting her to your presence and pestering her.' His tone was dark and hinted that it was decidedly not a mere proposal and suggested repercussions of epic proportions if not obeyed. The thin lips curled into an ugly sneer. 'I will take my leave now. Goodnight.' With a short bow that belied his upper-class wizard breeding, he left the shell-shocked room in a billow of black robes.

The twins glanced at each other and stood, making briskly for the exit.

'Where are you going?' their mother asked, perhaps a little too sharply. Her still wet cheeks shining and she waved away the handkerchief her husband offered her, her eyes narrowed dangerously at her sons.

Fred paused, his hand resting on the doorknob and his twin turned, squaring his shoulders defiantly. 'We're off to see Hermione, of course. It's not like that bastard vampire can stop us and–'

Molly exploded. 'You heard what the professor said-'

'He betrayed us! He killed Dumbledore! Why should we trust him?'

The woman regarded her children warily, before exchanging looks with her husband and Remus.

George caught the brief exchanged and frowned. 'What's going on?' he demanded, trying to catch his father's eye. Arthur looked away uncomfortably.

'Nothing is going on!' Molly said agitatedly, tightening the belt of her robes. 'For heaven's sake, there is no conspiracy! And don't you dare disturb the poor girl. Don't say "But Mum",' she snapped angrily, seeing Fred open his mouth. 'If I catch you within twenty feet of her room, I _will _hex you.' The warning glare she sent around the room implied that the threat extended to them too.

Harry left the room, shutting the door decisively behind him as Mrs Weasley continued her lecture. The stairs creaked ominously underfoot as he climbed the steps, one hand resting lightly on the polished wood of the railings.

Hermione was back.

He didn't know when the news was going to fully sink in. It seemed to be almost impossible – a miracle. With a start, Harry realised that he had actually given up. He had given up the hope that he would ever see her alive again. He was subconsciously sure that he would be seeing her violated body draped across his doorstep. His feet slowed and he found himself pondering if he would be surprised if that had happened. He had been ready to face herlifeless– no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that she might make it back, he was undeniably prepared mentally to say goodbye to Hermione Granger. It was all a façade, he realised. The way he seemed to so adamantly cling to optimism.

"Move on, Harry," they murmured quietly to him in the hallways. He had shaken his head defiantly. All an act. He was _acting. _For the benefit of himself. He _had _moved on, looking forward to the future, towards the inescapable battle between Light and Dark. Her being taken was regrettable and a real shock, but she was expendable. Somehow, he had managed to convince himself that she was a justifiable compromise in the cost of war.

'What kind of friend am I?' he whispered in horror. What kind of friend would abandon hope for another? He had lost faith. Had she? Had Hermione bitten her lips when they questioned her under the Cruciatus? Had she tried to fight off the overwhelming despair, pain and humiliation, drawing onto the last vestiges of hope in her drying well? Did she think of him then? Was she thinking of the Order when they left her in the uncomforting solitude of night?

He ground his teeth in frustration at the feeling of guilt and worthlessness. He looked around and saw that while his mind had been wallowing in culpability, his feet had brought him to the very end of the house. He paused, about to turn and retrace his steps when he realised that he was standing directly in front of the room assigned to Snape. Harry was torn between turning his back and walking to his room - and to risk the anger of a possibly irate Death Eater, whose standing in which field remained shadowy - just to ease his troubled thoughts.

He raised his hand and knocked on the old door and waited for a beat. He frowned when there was no reply from within. Harry rapped again, this time with more confidence. As he raised his fist again, the door was yanked open and the man glared murderously at him. 'I see that you fail completely to grasp the simple concept that I want to be alone. I do not want company, least of all yours.'

Harry stuck his foot in the rapidly decreasing space between the door and its frame as Snape started to close the portal. 'Sir, I want to talk.'

'And I have no wish to have a conversation with you,' was the acidic reply. 'Remove your foot before I do it for you.'

Harry caught the blazing glare and stepped back dutifully. 'Please…' he pleaded, in a voice that could barely be described as a whisper. Snape paused, the door only open now by mere inches. It emboldened the younger man. 'Please… I just want to know what happened to her.'

The black eyes hiding behind the dark veil of hair blinked once tiredly and disappeared. 'Come in,' the man called over his shoulder. Harry pushed the door open and stepped into the dark room. He was immediately assaulted with the piquant fumes of mixed herbs and exotic spices. Rubbing his watery eyes and coughing, he could make out three small cauldrons bubbling in a corner. The middle cauldron contained a lurid green potion which belched ominously at regular intervals. He tore his eyes away and found Snape already seated on an old armchair, his long legs propped on a low footstool. Despite the relaxed attitude, the ropy muscles in his shoulders were tense and the hand that gripped the glass of amber firewhisky was stiff, the fingers wrapped so tightly that the knuckles shone white. Cautiously, Harry approached the wizard, halting a few feet away.

'Sit down, boy,' the man drawled, nodding to the vacant armchair opposite him. As Harry sank into his seat, Snape downed the remainder of his drink with a grim expression before stretching out an arm to grab a dusty bottle of Odgen's off the table to refill his glass. He held the bottle aloft and swirled it, the crystal red liquid lapping against the sides. 'Care for a drink?'

Harry accepted after a moment of hesitation and watched quietly as Snape conjured another glass and filled it with the sparkling elixir. Harry took a tentative sniff before daring a sip. He choked and spluttered inelegantly as the drink burned his throat on its way down and settled uneasily like lava in the pit of his stomach.

Snape chuckled mirthlessly behind the rim of his glass. 'Firewhiskey – a drink for real men.' Harry locked his eyes on the dark wizard and took another generous mouthful, stifling the automatic reflex to gag. Snape smiled thinly and lifted the bottle, offering to refill Harry's cup. Harry accepted the challenge readily and held out his glass.

They settled into what may be timidly be labelled as a companionable silence. The alcohol surged through Harry's veins, warming him deliciously down to the very tips of his toes. Every now and then, the Potions Master would turn his head to check the progress of his concoctions. Curiosity grew in the Gryffindor's chest until he could no longer contain himself, 'What are those things?' He indicated to the brewing mixtures.

The wizard sighed and placed his drink on the low table, but there was no impatience in his tone when he answered. 'I think that you could, at the very least, identify the Dreamless Sleep Potion when you see it.' Frowning, Harry squinted through the gloom of the room and he found that he did recognise the potion bubbling on the right. 'The middle cauldron holds a variant of the Blood Replenishing Potion and in the last cauldron; the Muscle Relaxant Draught.' As he spoke, his slender digits reached to massage his right knee, drawing the pads of his fingers in slow circles around his patella.

Eyeing the older man kneading his knee, Harry ventured to ask, 'The potions are for you, then?' At the sharp look Snape gave him, Harry continued, 'I noticed that you'd hurt your knee…' He trailed off uncertainly as the other man straightened rigidly.

Snape clutched the armrests of his chair tightly, his lips thinning into an unforgivable strict line. 'They are for Miss Granger,' he replied jerkily. The black eyes were unreadable and guarded. He met the younger man's emerald stare the briefest of seconds before reaching for his drink to mask the awkward moment. He nursed the wizard whiskey as he waited for the forthcoming questions. Harry toyed with the glass, spinning it in his hands and asked his next question cautiously, as if dreading the answer. 'What happened to her, sir? What happened to Hermione in the hands of Voldemort?'

Snape flinched at the mention of his master's name and stood, dusting off his robes. His gaze was firmly locked to the corner of the room as he strode to the cauldrons. He took a few minutes, pretending to check the consistency of his potions before turning and answering the question.

'She has suffered much, Potter,' he said softly, each syllable dropping like a stone in a pond. He drew a shaky breath and closed his eyes briefly, the muscles in his strong jaw twitching. When he opened his eyes, the dark orbs were like a dry void, a bottomless abyss with no emotion. 'No one deserves such treatment... It was inhuman,' he said, his voice was soft. Grief and guilt peeked from behind their stone masks before the man packed them away again. 'I will not tell you what that witch was forced to endure, Potter… but ask me again and I will_ show_ you.'

There was no threat in the sentence and Harry read the meaning behind the veiled words at once. He carefully placed his drink onto the table and stood, looking openly at the face of his father's childhood nemesis with no fear, suspicion or hate. 'What happened to Mione.'

It wasn't really a question. With each precisely pronounced word, he took a step closer towards the tall wizard half shrouded in the shadows. The clear eyes pinned him. Snape advanced slowly, taking carefully measured steps. The dark orbs never left Harry's face as Snape swallowed Harry's hand which still held his wand, in his. He raised Harry's wand to his temple and gave a small nod of his head.

Harry stared at him with wide eyes, cottoning on. '_Legilimens,_' he whispered, almost in awe.

The room swam, as if plunged suddenly into murky water, and images – Snape's memories – filtered rapidly beneath his eyelids. The memories, Harry realised, were well filed and he was watching them. Bile rose to the back of his throat as he went through the clips and flashing images chronologically.

Hermione, her wrists bound behind her back, was pushed to her knees by a masked Death Eater. Her red lips were forced apart by a cruelly tight gag. Her eyes were so wide that the whites were showing. The Death Eater lifted a fist and delivered a punishing blow to the side of her head, snapping her head back. The ring he wore scratched the flesh and drew blood. The scarlet blood dripped into her eye and she shook her head, blinking furiously. Her eyes were sparkling with unshed crystalline tears, but she straightened her back and met his gaze squarely. He laughed at her and drew his wand.

'_Crucio._'

Harry staggered, trying to stop the flood of images, but Snape pressed forward, mercilessly pushing down the mental barriers that Harry tired to put up to stave off the torrents of memories.

She crouched within a circle of black robed wizards. Her right eye was swollen shut and blood dripped from her nose. She glared at them defiantly.

'Mudblood filth!' screeched a woman as she lunged forward and brought her white hand sharply across the pale cheeks. Bellatrix Lestrange bared her teeth in a feral manner and pulled out her wand from the folds of her sleeve. '_Diffindo!' _

An ugly cut sliced the flesh, dragging from one ear, down the jaw and across the neck, ending at her collar bone. Hermione cried out, pressing her palms to the wound. '_Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo!' _The skin on her arms split brutally open, exposing the bones in her forearms, as she threw up her hands instinctively to protect her face. The crimson life poured down and dripped from her elbows.

'_Diffindo!'_

Despite the sunken cheeks and the once lustrous blonde hair that now hung in lifeless clumps to the man's scalp, Harry recognised the unmistakeable aristocratic facial cut of Lucius Malfoy. The gaunt face and the thin arms were evidence of the wizard's incarceration in the wizarding prison of Azkaban. The pallid face twisted into a satanic expression and he raised his stolen wand.

'_Crucio.' _He intoned with great relish, pouring all his malice and hate into that one curse.

She convulsed, shoulders shaking and she jerked and twisted as she curled and uncurled herself into a foetal position. A ragged scream tore from her lips and her back arched at an impossible angle. Her eyes rolled wildly in their sockets and her cries doubled in intensity as two "pop"s heralded the dislocation of her shoulders.

'Enough! Enough!' Harry cried as he crumpled to the ground, shaking. Empty eyes watched him as he struggled back to his feet. Perspiration peppered his brow and he reached to brush away the sweat-drenched locks from his forehead. His legs were staunchly refusing to bear his weight and he staggered, groping for the back of the wingchair for support. 'How could you…? How could you just _stand _there and do _nothing?_'

'By reminding myself of my duty.'

'What duty?' spat Harry, testing the strength of his legs.

'My duty to the Order.' He regarded Harry's incredulous expression coolly.

'I was there, you know,' Harry said at last, 'I was there the night you killed Dumbledore.'

Snape's face betrayed no signs of surprise. 'I know,' he replied quietly.

Harry straightened and pulled out his wand from its holster, pointing it at Snape's chest. 'Why did you do it? He begged you not to kill him!' The hand that held the wand shook unsteadily as he relived that night. 'Why?'

Instead of answering immediately, the man turned and gave the Blood Replenishing Potion a stir. 'It is ironic,' he sighed tiredly after a tense moment of silence, 'that I would not take a life in the name of the Dark Lord… and yet… I do not hesitate when it comes to the Order.' He peered with half-lidded eyes over his shoulder. 'Dumbledore was not begging for his life - do not stain your last memories of him. He would never beg… The potion he had consumed – yes, I know about that – was slowly killing him, draining him of life. He pleaded, yes, but not for me to spare him. He pleaded euthanasia. He wanted me to end it quickly. In his last words, I understood the role he wanted me to play,' he said bitterly. 'Albus was one of the greatest wizards of our time, and a bloody conniving bastard. With me casting that Unforgivable, he had put in motion the plan to kill multiple birds with one stone. Murdering the most powerful wizard would help me rise in rank in the Dark Lord's inner circle. I could regain his trust. I could keep an eye on young Malfoy… but most importantly, _I could still pass on valuable information to the Order._' He turned and his gaze flickered briefly down to the wand still pointed to his chest before moving back up to Harry's face.

Harry gasped, suddenly remembering the times when mysterious owls ferrying charmed letters appeared almost weekly, delivering the sealed envelopes directly to Remus or to one of the other adults. It had been Snape all along…

'It was also fortunate,' he continued quietly, 'that I had been close at hand to slip the girl a Portkey.'

Harry lowered his wand almost shamefully. 'Is that how you did it? Portkeyed her out of there?'

Snape smiled humourlessly, 'It sounds absurdly easy, doesn't it? Insultingly simple? That's the beauty of uncomplicated plans with very little factors to affect the outcome – it either goes miraculously right or it goes woefully wrong.'

'How did you get the Portkey to her?'

The expression on the wizard's face clouded over and he frowned, not giving an answer. 'It is late, Potter.'

Harry knew a polite dismissal when he heard one and he took his cue and nodded. 'Goodnight, sir.' At the doorway, he paused and turned to look back at the man who wore his cloak of indifference proudly, the wizard who hid behind cold personas because he preferred to be alone, in his quiet solitude. 'Thank you…' And he closed the door gently behind him.

Snape's mouth curled unpleasantly and he strode to the table and swiped the Odgen's off the top. He chose to forgo his glass and lifted the bottle to his lips. He threw back his head and gulped down the sense-seducing drink. He tossed the empty bottle into the hearth, the tightness in his chest loosening slightly at the satisfying tinkle as the bottle shattered, sprinkling shards. He shut his eyes and sank into a seat, bracing his face in his hands. The alcohol was slow in its work and unwanted memories rose from the back of his mind. He shuddered, drawing a rattling breath as her screams echoed hollowly in his head.

Dolohov's raucous laughter drowned out the others as Lucius pushed Snape forward. 'Do you see that, Severus?' the blonde man purred silkily into his ear, the grey eyes alight with a devilish glint. 'The Mudblood whore!'

The ring of Death Eaters laughed uproariously. Snape's lips curled with unhidden disgust and his gaze lingered on the torn blouse, held together by mere threads, barely managing to modestly cover the shivering witch. Her chocolate eyes met his and held him as she silently pleaded with him to save her. 'Do you like her, then? Your new pet?'

Snape glanced sharply at the man beside him. Lucius leered, licking his lips in an insinuatively vulgar manner. 'Your prize – for your taking, to warm your bed at night. The Dark Lord _insists_, my friend.' He stepped lightly around Hermione, roving eyes drinking in every inch of detail. She stiffened; her breathing accelerating as terror grew exponentially, inhibited in her, and it reflected clearly in her eyes. He circled her slowly, like a lazy vulture regarding a slab of meat, his booted feet silent as he glided around her. She jumped, much to the amusement of those gathered, the coiled muscles in her body reacting instantaneously when Malfoy dragged his long fingers through her matted locks. She flinched and jerked away sharply. His hand entangled itself in her hair, near the roots of her curls, and he yanked her head backwards. She bit her bloodied lip to keep from crying out.

'Can you see her, Severus?' he hissed, enjoying the way her eyes widened at the way the other man's name rolled of his tongue. 'Can you see her writhing weakly, uncooperative in your grasps as you lie between her legs, taking her as she chokes back on her own tears and ultimate shame? Screaming your name in the stillness of night as she begs, between raspy gasps… Crying as you take her forcefully again and again and again, pounding into her unwilling flesh?' He drew in a deep breath, revelling in the scent of fear that tainted the air. She moaned quietly and shook her head feebly. He watched shrewdly out of the corner of his eyes and saw Snape's potion-skilled hands twitched imperceptibly. The obsidian eyes were filled with muted fire.

'Take her. Now.'

As if under an Imperious Curse, the man jerked forward, fingers working at the fastenings of his heavy cloak. He fumbled with his belt and a soft groan of frustration escaped his lips at the many tiny black buttons lining his formal frock-robes. She shut her eyes tightly as he shed the last of his clothing. His warm hands were not gentle when he laid them on her shoulders and applied enough pressure to force her onto her back. She bit her lips and turned her head resolutely away when he tore away the dismal scraps that covered her thus far. Hermione curled her trembling fingers into a tight fist when he nudged her thighs open with his knees. She concentrated frantically on the uncomfortable roots and bits of sharp rock digging into her back, trying to distract herself from the inevitable. Her eyes flew open when he poised himself at her entrance. She swung desperately, lashing out with her fists, but he blocked the clumsy blows easily. He crushed her with his weight, his lips grazing her ear in feathery kisses before he nipped her lobe hard, drawing blood. He growled as she shifted under him, the low rumbling resonating in his chest. Snape gripped both her wrists in one hand and roughly pinned them above her head. She panted, pupils dilated with undiluted fear and apprehension and she was suddenly aware of the friction between their two bodies. He crushed her lips with his in a possessive, searing kiss, invading her mouth with his tongue, flicking hungrily against her teeth. He pulled away and barely spared her a moment to recover before he leaned down and bit her collar-bone, dragging his tongue over the area to soothe the redness at her pained hiss.

'Look at me,' he commanded, his voice harsh, the black wings of his hair framing his thin face. He imprisoned her gaze and with one swift thrust, buried himself in her, tearing her and making her bleed. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes and she cried out at the invasion, feeling ripped apart and exposed.

'Look at me!' He ordered and pulled out of her, sparing her only a brief moment of orientation before driving into her again with such brutality that she screamed. He panted, thrusting into her with primeval urgency. She struggled to obey him, to hold his unwavering stare as he rocked rhythmically against her hips. With a guttural moan, he slumped against her as he filled her womb. She turned her head a side and cried softly. His breathing eventually slowed and he pulled himself off the ground and stood. He dressed unhurriedly, slowly doing up his buttons.

The surrounding Death Eaters watched silently from beneath their hoods. Lucius smirked arrogantly, his wand dangling between idle fingers. Snape turned and regarded her coldly, pushing back his greasy hair with one hand, before digging into his robe pockets.

'For your service,' he sneered and tossed a bronze Knut at her. The blonde wizard laughed in perverse delight and clapped the man on the back. She wrapped her goose-pimpled arms around herself to recover what little humility she had left. Hermione hung her head, not wanting them to see her tears of disgrace. With her peripheral vision, she saw him crouch in the dirt beside her. He gripped her jaw and twisted her face and brushed against her wet cheek with velvet lips. 'Hold tight to that as you would hang on to your foolish Gryffindor courage, girl,' he murmured in an undertone.

She blinked confusedly at him, her long lashes wet with tears. He unsheathed his wand and drew it sharply across her left breast, directly above her heart. She hissed in pain as Severus marked her as his. The letters burned into her flesh were thin and spidery.

_Property of the Half-Blood Prince._

_To be continued..._


	2. I: Condono

**Author's Note: **I thought that perhaps I should state that this story was actually originally planned as a one-shot. However, the plot sort of grew and the story padded itself out and I found myself being forced to break it up into chapters.

My one weakness is that I haven't the commitment to finish any novel length fics. So one of my main concerns here is that I would not be able to finish _Porcelain Doll. _But I am pretty confident that I can (so far, anyway) as I am very proud of my baby.

To those of you hoping that this is indeed going to be a novel length piece of fiction with forty over chapters, I feel obligated to tell you now that it will not be so. As I have said, this was originally planned as a one-shot. I am estimating that the most chapters _Porcelain Doll _would have is four or five.

Sorry to disappoint, but I do not want to expand this until it reaches a climax and then my inspiration and zeal fizzles out unceremoniously, resulting in this piece of work being abandoned.

**Disclaimer: **I do not assume any legal liability of the characters or settings here. All creative property belongs to JKR, excluding the plot to this fic. I seek no monetary gains and all recognisable claim of JKR is intended for entertainment use only and will be returned safe and sound.

* * *

**Porcelain Doll  
**_I. Condono  
_(To Forgive)

Severus took in a long shuddering breath and rubbed his face tiredly, distractedly noting the stubble on his chin. He glanced at the old time-piece hanging on the wall before standing and making his way to the cauldrons. His movements lacked his usual feline grace as he cast a quick Cooling Charm and began to bottle the potions. He swallowed his aggravation and bit his cheek to prevent himself from voicing out an obscene curse when the ladle he was holding slipped from trembling fingers and clattered to the stone floor, splattering his already distressed robes with the brew.

Lucius delivered a sharp kick to her side, which extracted a pained yelp. 'Show you respect, Mudblood. _Imperio!'_

She jolted upright when the spell hit her and then she stared up at them with wide, glazed eyes. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to the instructions whispering around her head and seducing her mind. The muscles in her hands contracted in spasms, causing her fingers to twitch ferociously as she struggled to fight off the curse. And then jerkily, the spell exercising its hold over her, she crawled on all fours to Severus. He felt a cold anger rise within him and he itched to hex everyone in the vicinity for forcing her to do this_… _to grovel in the dirt. He resisted the urge and stayed his hand, settling his expression to its customary sneer as she dipped her head, the tips of her curls trailing through the mire, and pressed her lips to his boots.

The was a thin film of humiliated tears glistening in the brown orbs as she sat back at on her heels and gazed back at him, her hands clasped and rested on her knees.

'Is she not a darling pet, Severus? Why don't you reward her? Give her a biscuit and perhaps a little rub, Severus.'

It was almost like an _Imperio; _he had little choice but to comply. He held the disconcertingly blank stare and patted her head. 'Good girl,' he murmured, sneering contemptuously for the benefit of the other Death Eaters. An indignant flame rose before the dark eyes before the Imperious quelled her rebellion and she butted him with her head when he removed his hand, demanding more degrading attention. He laughed along with the other, though he felt the sickness inside.

A quiet dry sob escaped his lips and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to force the image away. He stooped to pick up the silver ladle, white fingers groping the floor for the handle as his vision clouded murkily. The pads of his digits brushed the ground, sweeping left and right as he defiantly refused to liberate the tears that had collected in his eyes. He straightened and brushed a sleeve brusquely across his cheeks and returned to bottling the potions.

His usually calligraphic writing lacked its expressive flair as he labelled the many vials. When finally, the last of the vials were labelled and neatly arranged on the table, he saw that it was close to four in the morning. He brushed his lank hair from his face and felt exhaustion roll over him like a tidal wave when he stood. Severus gripped the edge of the table as his vision swam and he waited for the room to settle. He staggered across the room to thee bed, all the sinews in his aching body objecting greatly to every movement. He did not bother to remove his footwear or even consider a change of clothes, sliding directly between the cool sheets and closed his eyes.

Immediately, the dreams began…

'Don't,' her tone was worn and broken, her voice scratchy when she squeezed out the monosyllabic plea from her raw throat. She shied away when he knelt on one knee next to her, ignoring the protestations of his rigid joints, his sinews still stiff with the after effects of an Unforgivable. His cool fingers traced the prominent cheekbones. A small frown creased his white forehead when he noted the hollowness of her cheeks. She was alarmingly thin; her half-starved appearance and her pale and dry skin attenuate this emaciation, testimony of the infrequent times they remembered to feed her. Her body had started to consume itself; stripping her muscles of tissue protein before moving on to her organs.

He sat on the floor, resting his back against the wall and wrapped a hand firmly around her upper arm and pulled her gently against his chest. She protested, though only feebly, but soon settled in his lap, accepting what heat his body could offer her. She closed her eyes in a resigned fashion, although her hand remained in tight fists in her lap. His probing fingers were gentle and he slipped his hand under the tattered remains of her blouse. He pressed the pads of his fingers lightly on her ribs, carefully running his digits along the bones. She jerked in his arms when he rubbed a protruding bump. Severus applied a little more pressure, pulling back hastily when she cried out.

'You have a severely broken rib, Granger.'

She sucked in a shallow breath, wincing openly at the stabbing pain. 'I know, Professor.' Hermione's answer was forced out behind gritted teeth. Severus thought it was morbidly fascinating that despite the fact that he has forced himself upon her, she had kept to the use of his professional title. He wondered if this was the fault of habit; she was his student after all, and he was her Potions instructor. He was quite certain that her calling him "Professor" was anything but because of respect – not after that night.

He had taken her respect and invariably lost his.

Still, he pondered philosophically, perhaps it was her way of distancing herself mentally from him. Detachment was never the Gryffindor's strong point, but perhaps this was one way she was doing it. How much more impersonal can it get than addressing one in such a way?

He shelved the mental discussion and turned his attention instead to the witch. With slight hesitation, he encircled a strong arm around her stomach and stood, pulling her to her feet at the same time. He allowed her a few seconds to claim her footing before unwrapping his arm from her waist. She made no move to turn around so he laid his hand on her shoulders and slowly spun her to face him. Her brown eyes were dull and listless and she stared at a point past his shoulder.

Severus looked away quickly, unable to stand the empty void, the soulless pools. He drew out his wand and discerned how she went very still suddenly, her breathing forcibly slow. There was a small spark of something – of life, perhaps - in the wide-glassy eyes. He guided the wand to his left; carefully keeping its tip averted from her, and swung it in a low arch, dragging it slowly through the air to the right. All this time, his black eyes watched her keenly. Hermione was eyeing the wand with astute wariness. Her head was held stubbornly high, with a slight tilt of her chin showing defiance. The brown eyes were narrowed into unforgiving slits, following the wand's journey. He almost smiled, _almost_ – this was the famous Godric Gryffindor courage, the annoying trait most students in the lion's house carried. Gryffindor courage… or stupidity, depending on one's perspective.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his suddenly, glittering in the dark. 'Professor Snape,' she spat venomously, drawing herself taller, forgetting about her injured ribs momentarily. Her sudden sharp intake of breath was the only warning Severus needed to hurry to her side, hands reaching out to steady her as she wobbled unsteadily.

'Don't touch me!' She stumbled backwards, fear and pain flashing across her tight expression before she duck her head, looking down at her bare feet, using her matted hair to shield her face. She had backed herself into the corner and she pressed her back against the cool wall, one palm placed on the wall to brace and steady herself.

Severus held out his hands, palms up, and took cautious, measured steps towards her. She was panting from both exertion and pain, eyes peeping from behind the dirty curtain of hair. He was struck suddenly with the disturbing connotations of the scene - how _wild _she looked, the desperate eyes darting frantically from side to side searching for some means of escape. Her unruly hair was a devastatingly messy halo, framing her face, further accenting her unhealthy pallid complexion and protruding cheekbones. She was tense, her weight mostly on the balls of her feet, ready to spring away.

Cornered and frightened animals bite, he remembered, and though he seriously doubted she would try that, he slowed his steps and unconsciously started to make low soothing noises at the back of his throat, as one might make, whilst attempting to attend to a hurt dog.

He found himself suddenly caught in a moment of indecision – should he risk what little trust she has (if she had any at all) for him and stun her, so he may tend to her injuries proficiently? Or coax her from her corner with false hopes and empty promises and shatter her again after repairing her? Gentle persuasion to build fragile trust. Or trust be damned, so he may treat her wounds before they get infected and poison her blood?

Hermione inadvertently made the decision for him when she suddenly lunged forward, fingers outstretched to snatch his wand.

'_Stupefy!_'

She tried to avoid the spell, attempting to twist out of the way but it hit her on her side. Her momentum carried her a little forward, and she slumped into his chest, a look of fear flickering across her face just before her eyes rolled back in her sudden loss of consciousness. He was just quick enough to hook an arm under hers to break her fall, pocketing his own wand and he reach to cradle her head with his other hand and laid her gently on the hard stones. He sat back and took a minute to study her in the silvery moonlight that filtered ungenerously through the rusty bars of the high window. Her ivory skin was tarnished with harsh bruises and lacerations. He shifted slightly and reached out to brush away a lock of knotted hair that fell of one side of her face, hiding her eye. Her lips were dry and chapped, dark red scabs clinging to the corners of her mouth. His eyes were automatically drawn to the fierce slash that started at her right earlobe, its tail twisting to an end on the opposite shoulder. The skin was puckered, healing slowly and it was obvious that there would be a hideous scar.

He pushed aside this superficial examination and started instead on her hurts, starting first on the numerous broken bones she had. He worked meticulously; systematically healing her injuries and taking mental notes on the potions he may have to bring to her. As he dug out the thin slivers of glass embedded deep under her toenails (Severus suspected this to be the handiwork of Mulciber in one of his more sadistic moods) and carefully popped each off her ten fingers back into their sockets, smoothing a think layer of greasy analgesic balm to ease the pain and help with the healing process, he found himself growing increasingly concern for Hermione's mental and emotional damage.

'_Enervate.' _

She gasped and arched off the floor, her eyes flying open and she gazed around frantically, pulling the folds of her blouse over her exposed flesh. He was not aware that he was resting his hand on her knee until she pulled her legs from under his touch and scooted away. 'Miss Granger… _Hermione…_' She stared back distrustingly at him. Her expression changed to one of wonder and perplexity as she looked down at her fingers, now liberally coated in a thick orange substance she recognised and dimly connected to the somewhat happier times with her accident prone friends of the wizarding world – Bruise removal paste. She spared him a quick glance before tearing open her blouse, ignoring as the last of her buttons ricocheted off the walls from the force of her attention, not seeing the odd expression on Severus's features before she probed her ribs, gingerly at first, expecting sharp agony. Her delicate investigation graduated to a more pernicious prodding of her previously injured bone. 'Wha…what…_Why?'_ She dragged up her shredded skirt, not caring or noticing that it bunched uncomfortably around her waist, or that it bordered on the inappropriate. There was a large shiny scar on her thigh, where Lucius had plunged his dagger in a malicious experiment to see if she bled _blood _like any normal witch or wizard.

'Why? Whywhywhy?' Her voice cracked and she sobbed, pounding her tiny fists onto the raised ridges of the scar with each utterance to channel across the question she could not lend further voice to. He caught her hands, swallowing her fists with his cool palms.

'Shh…Hermione…' The use of her name left a strange lingering taste in his mouth – it was alien and more than slightly disconcerting. It also felt distinctly inappropriate; uncomfortably _personal_ and _intimate… _Hermione… He studied her speculatively with shuttered eyes – not much of the eager-to-please girl here he remembered from the first day he set eyes upon her in the potions dungeon classroom. A highly intelligent woman unfortunately caught by the wrong side of the war and made to suffer merely because she had an "unfavourable heritage." She was the very embodiment of defiance against the Dark Lord's pureblood mentality. Hermione Granger, probably the brightest witch Hogwarts had ever seen, possibly even the cleverest witch anyone has seen this century, was a half-blood; impure and in the linear judgement of those inbred ignorant fools, an abomination, a stain on the very fabric of the magical world. She defied the irrational logic of the "traditionalists." Severus had encountered a few Squibs in his years: children of the supposed "approved" marriage arrangements. It did not take one of high calibre or a First Class Order of Merlin to discover that the combination of blood and powerful heritage did not always equal magical genius. This shivering young woman, complete with in-disciplinable bushy hair and sometimes flighty attitude, was a formidable witch.

They both stiffened when they heard footsteps approach, the smart clicking of heels against the floor in quick measured steps. A low murmur and the numerous wards to the cramped cell were dropped. Severus stood, turning to face the newcomer, his countenance schooled into a neutral expression. A sharp face appeared around the door, the dark eyes glittering. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped lightly into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. The piercing eyes barely flickered to register the silent witch in the corner before fixing onto the man before her.

'Severus,' she purred, twisting her head to the side, the soft glow of the moon highlighting her high cheekbones and the sculptured arch of her neck. He unconsciously shifted his weight to his right, as if to shield Hermione with his own body. A small smirk touched her lips as she dipped her head, a few tendrils of dark hair falling loose from the elegant bun at the nape of her neck, and swept him an elaborate curtsy; a mark of respect from a member of one of wizarding society's most venerable houses – the Lestranges – to another. He inclined his head and accepted it with dignity.

'Bella,' he returned, touching his lips to the proffered hand before straightening. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'

'Finding you here was a slight surprise, actually,' she replied, reaching to brush the dust coated lapels of his black woollen robes. He grunted and jerked his head to the side when her manicured talons scraped his chin in a manner he suspected was not altogether accidental. The sultry pout of her wine-coloured lips curled into a sneer and a hard look entered her eyes. Severus marvelled at the swift change in the woman. She had swept into the room, her expensive tailored gown swirling around her ankles, carrying herself with the grace of nobility on her slim shoulders. But now, the beautiful face was twisted with hatred as her gaze settled on Hermione. 'I did not notice you leaving tonight's festivities… I suppose that the two of you were getting _better acquainted.' _She sneered.

His fingers twitched in his robe pockets at the veiled intimation. He did not acknowledge or deny the allegation, but she took his silence as confirmatory.

'What are you doing?' he asked, his tone was sharp when she drew out her wand. She shushed him, lifting a hand to press her fingers to his lips. He stood stiffly as she nuzzled his neck, crushing her breasts shamelessly against his chest as she rubbed her nose against the stubble on his jaw. 'You have the honour of witnessing my newest curse – not even our Master has had this privilege, Severus,' she breathed into his ear. Her tongue flicked the air and tasted his earlobe. '_Concoquo Cruor.' _The curse was directed at Hermione.

A thin string of scarlet light struck her in the chest. Immediately, she started screaming, gouging at her own skin. 'Blood Boiling Curse, I call it,' she murmured softly, a grim smile of satisfaction on her lips.

'End it,' he said softly, unable to wrestle his gaze away from the transfixing sight. 'End it!' he demanded, louder this time. When she made no move to lift the curse, he pivoted on his heels and took a menacing step forward, using his commendable height to tower over her. He glared fiercely at her and in a tone that resonated quiet danger, he ordered, 'Damn it, Bella. _End it now.'_

She gave him a cold calculating look. 'I see…' she breathed, eyes narrowed. 'You are _fond _of her then?'

He growled, his eyes darting to glance at Hermione convulsing with agony. 'She is _mine.' _She barely faltered at his angry possessiveness, possibly seeing through his façade. With a flick of the wand and a low murmur of the counter-curse, Bellatrix released her from the clutches of the spell. She gave Severus one last look before turning to go. 'Play with her if you must; break the porcelain doll and then rearrange the pieces to your liking later. Latch onto her neediness and dependency if it feeds and strengthens you. But do not forget what the wench is: a Mudblood, nothing more. She is not worthy of your more sincere of attentions. I can clearly see that she amuses you and I will not deny you a little pleasure. But it would not do for you to get too attached to the creature – the Dark Lord will not be pleased. Remember my words, Severus.'

'Get out.' He held himself stiffly until she left. A low moan attracted his awareness back to Hermione. She was rocking on her heels, face pressed into her palms. There were unsightly blisters all along her arms, some of which had already ruptured and steadily oozed thick brownish liquid. Severus almost choked when a soft breeze filtered through the room, sweeping the unmistakeable smell of cooked blood along in its wake. He neared her and knelt by her side.

'It – It hurts; my eyes, Se - Severus…' Her voice was tiny and it cracked on the unexpected use of his name. He was surprised to be addressed as so at such a time and was further startled, when she flung herself at him, arms desperately clinging to his neck, her fingers burying deep into his dark hair as she pressed her face into his voluminous robes. After an awkward moment of rigidity, he hesitantly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gently rocked her. As he continued to soothe her, he reflected on her sudden application of his given name.

'Let me see,' he whispered softly. She was unresisting when he carefully pried her arms off his shoulders and pushed her away, laying one hand lightly on her shoulder to steady her unbalanced state. She was not looking at him, her face was partially covered by her hair and was downcast and to the side. He slid a palm under her chin and tilted her face to meet his eyes. The white shaft of moonlight bathed her features and he made to tuck her curls behind her ears. His breath caught painfully in his chest. Her rich brown eyes were missing from her face. In their place were now the gaping hollows of her eye sockets, crusty blood clinging to her lashes.

His eyes flew open and he thrashed violently, getting hopelessly entangled in the sheets. He was drenched in perspiration and his sweat stung his eyes. He blinked wildly in the pitch black room and attempted to sit up. He endeavoured to stand and in his haste, the coverings had coiled around his legs and he stumbled. He crashed to the floor, cursing inventively when he landed on his already injured knee.

'Are you alright?' asked a concerned voice.

Severus whipped towards the sound and narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the identity of the shadowy figure hovering uncertainly by the wingchair. He cursed again, this time in a harsh whisper and picked himself up. He didn't bother to hide the grimace as he flexed his protesting joints, and groped in the dark for his wand.

'_Lumos.'_

Harry blinked owlishly at him, holding up a forearm to shade his eyes. If it was possible, Severus thought that his typical tumble of untidy hair was even messier, and the wizard's collar was askew and his robes dreadfully crumpled.

'What are you doing here?' demanded the older man, glaring down at him. Harry squinted at him and made a face. 'D'you mind?' he asked, gesturing with his other hand at the lighted wand.

Severus gnashed his teeth in irritation and lowered his wand. '_Nox.'_ With a quick wave, the torches in the brackets sprang to life, bathing the room in a warm glow. He glowered with liquid assurance at the adolescent. 'Well?'

Harry regarded him silently for a moment before sighing, reaching up with one hand to automatically brush away errant strands of his dark hair that curled on his forehead. Severus retained his stiff stance, studying Harry.

There was so much difference in this young man of twenty three than he had remembered. Gone was the gawky appearance of a young boy, thrust suddenly into a world whose society placed him on a gilded pedestal with demandingly high expectations. He was no longer the rash adolescent, rushing head first into danger. Severus conceded infinitesimally to himself that though the trait might be considered valiant, admirable and courageous, it simply bordered on the recklessness. All brawn and no brains. Gryffindor at its finest. Severus smirked inwardly, his polished dark eyes glinting in the shadows.

The Gryffindor straightened, as if sensing the evaluation. He held his head high and drew back his shoulders; leaning heavily towards a proud posture. Severus inhaled sharply and reared back. It was uncanny. The similarities between father and son were painfully apparent. James Potter had often held himself in the same way. Severus's lips drew back into a silent snarl of dislike even as his mind registered belatedly the small teasing cadence on Harry's expression.

Severus spun away, feeling foolish that he had taken the bait. He did not witness the slumping of the younger man's shoulders or the shameful flush that crept up his face.

When the potions master reacted unfavourably to the jest, Harry realised a little too late that Severus had read too much on the surface to see the sincere layers beneath. In a time frame of a mere few seconds, Severus had drawn his shroud of cold detachment around his shoulders once more. Harry angrily berated himself, immediately putting two and two together and inferred that the pose he had struck moments before probably dragged up some unfavourable memories.

'Sir…' Harry began, uncertain if he should chance an explanation. He drew back with a start when the older wizard turned with an impressive swirl of black material, his features contorted into a hateful sneer.

'What do you want, you tiresome boy?'

Harry blinked, stung by the caustic question hissed at him. After a short moment, he spoke with a tinge of poignancy, 'I am not who you think I am.'

'I beg your pardon, Potter?'

'I am not my father. I know, sir, what my father was really like. You were right; he is just as you had painted him – arrogant, conceited. His group of friends are hardly faultless either.'

The younger wizard looked up and saw that the Potion Master had his face averted from him, his thin shoulders hunched. Folded into himself in that manner, the man actually looked frail and vulnerable. It was most disconcerting for Harry to witness, for this was not the same man that seemed to relish towering over terrified students as they worked feverishly to produce acceptable potions. This was not the same man, that by his act of disparaging contempt in class, seem to overtly exhibit his belief that teaching a roomful of dunderheads is the eighth circle of hell.

'Sirius is probably the one to instigate the others against you… and then there was that prank when you were in sixth year…' Harry trailed off, catching the hard light that flashed across Severus's onyx orbs.

'They are gone, sir, my father my godfather. Dead and gone.' His voice caught a little, but he cleared his throat and continued fiercely, 'They were wrong and what they did, unprovoked in most circumstances, their actions, have been neglected to be treated accordingly. On behalf of James Potter and Sirius Black and the rest of the Marauders, I apologise. I apologise for the pain and humiliation that you have suffered.'

Severus was staring at him with an expression of such amazement on his features that Harry found himself hard-pressed not to laugh aloud. Harry shook his head slightly. 'But now, sir, I must charge you of being prejudiced,' he declared, a small smile on his lips to reduce the sting of his words. 'Your bigotry has blindsided you and ever since the moment I have stepped foot into Hogwarts, you have detested me. You saw me not as I am; as the young boy who was suddenly tossed into the deep turbulent waters of the wizarding world and its infernal politics. You have already painted the mask of my father's face and his actions upon my own. Sir… professor… _Severus…_' His tone was beseeching and his emerald eyes were alight with the fervour of the moment of his impassioned speech. 'I am not my father. I am not James Potter. I am me; Harry… Harry Potter.'

There was a long moment of silence before Severus spoke, his tone richly coated with quiet respect. 'I admire you, Harry – Yes, I do. Kindly not imitate a goldfish, boy; it is entirely unbecoming for a hero of the wizarding world. You must forgive me for the sudden use of your given name, but I cannot abide to tie the name Potter to yourself after you have thus bared yourself to me. I maybe petty or irrational, but I cannot in anyway separate you from the unpleasant memories I have of your father if I continue the use of your family name. But I have strayed from my original train of thought; I admire your ability to articulate your sentiments. While my vocabulary may be far more extensive than yours, I do not find it easy to convey my thoughts and feelings. Perhaps I lack the practice or the courage.'

The man in front of Harry who usually held his emotions under strict reins had a surprising array of colourful expressions when the canvas that was his face was unveiled. Severus paused, feeling rather awkward all of a sudden. The blinds that shuttered the windows to his soul started to automatically draw shut again but Severus consciously forced them open. He drew in a tired breath, feeling as if the dark wool of his robes was tightening against his chest, constricting his breathing. He edged around the low table to sink into the armchair with the kind of boneless elegance that Harry secretly envied. He sat opposite the brooding man and when Severus lifted his eyes to meet his, he cocked his head and nodded, to encourage the older man.

'You must think me weak to expose myself in such a manner to you, Pot – Harry.'

Harry shook his head. 'For once, sir, you are wrong. Barely ten minutes ago, you told me that you admired me. Now I feel that I must return that compliment. It is my turn to admire you.'

Severus nodded slowly, a look of immense relief flickered across his face for the briefest of moments.

'You have charged me with being prejudiced against you. To this crime, I plead guilty. In my only defence, I can only state that you look too much like your father for my liking. Had you not your mother's eyes, I can comfortably swear that I would've hexed you well into the next millennia without second thought. The unsavoury memories I have of James Potter held an omnipotent sway over me. I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse I wanted strongly to disobey, but could not.

'I am but a bitter, petty man, Harry. My unhappy childhood and friendless existence has driven a nail into my soul. And there it has and rusted and poisoned me, I fear. I used to have a heart, but it has shrivelled in its cage of torment and misery and self-loathing. I am alone and wretched for no witch or wizard would voluntarily associate with me. I lay awake at night, wandering that if by some bittersweet chance that my spirit should slip from this body, this lonely vessel, would there be anyone to miss me tomorrow? The utter agony of my feelings allowed me no respite and I looked vainly for a chance to vent my anger and to rid myself of the desperate longing in my heart. You were that outlet… I was malicious because I was miserable.

'It did not soothe my malignant wounds that you were everything that I was not. You hardly had any spells in your near empty head when you arrived by carriage. Yet already, everyone expected wonderful, near ridiculous, things from you. You were popular. You had friends. You only served to remind me of the things which I was deficit of.

'When I was attending Hogwarts, I found out quickly that the other houses were wary of the Slytherins. House members are usually protective of one another, but for some reason, even the other snakes shunned me. I threw myself into my work. I found that study and work dulled my yearning for affection.

'I was half-starved of attention and I was at the weakest point of my life. When the senior Slytherins took miniscule notice of me, I jumped into their midst. Under their guidance and encouragement, I joined the Death Eaters.'

At this point of Severus's quick summation of his youth, Harry felt his blood run cold. The little hairs on his arms stood and goose pimples prickled his skin. He felt an icy shiver down his spine and he wrapped his arms around himself.

His ex-professor did not seem to notice the fidgeting of the other man. There was a strange light in his eyes and his hand gestures were animated. He was no longer slumped into the bowl of his seat, but rather he was leaning forward, as if he was straining to pour out his story. It seemed that once the dam was breached, there was no stopping the rush of words.

'They gave me power. They gave me respect. In return, I had to be unquestionably loyal to the Dark Lord. For once in my life, Harry, I felt as if I was of some importance! I strived for more recognition, for more favour of the Dark Lord, so he may then dispense upon me more rewards.

'And then I had the fortune of overhearing something that would cement a place for me in the prestigious inner circle. It was the prophecy, Harry, the one regarding the Dark Lord's fall…'

'You have asked for my forgiveness, and now I must ask for yours. I reported my findings to my master. It was I that alerted the Dark Lord to the possible end of his reign. And through my actions, I have pointed him straight to your parents.' Severus's dry throat hindered him and he swallowed thickly. There was desperation in his eyes now.

'It was my fault, Harry. I have killed them. I am the cause of their deaths.'

* * *

_To be continued…_


	3. I: Deceptum

**Author's Note: **I thank you, as my reader, for having infinite patience with me. I am a very undisciplined updater. But in my defence, I can only bring forward that the excuse for my tardiness lies in the unfortunate event that made me lose my finished chapter three. I had it written already in my hard drive, waiting to be proof-read. And then suddenly, Disaster strikes and my computer crashes, leaving me in absolute horrified shock. I've since crawled out from under my comfort blanket and gotten over the trauma.

I guess some black clouds have silver linings because I took some time to rethink the storyline for _Porcelain Doll_ and have decided to steer it onto a slightly newer path. A path that is hopefully less trodden by the other talented fanfiction authors out there.

**Disclaimer: **I do not assume any legal liability of the characters or settings here. All creative property belongs to JKR, excluding the plot to this fic. I seek no monetary gains and all recognisable claim of JKR is intended for entertainment use only and will be returned safe and sound. 

**

* * *

Porcelain Doll**  
_I. Deceptum_  
(To Deceive)

'It was my fault, Harry. I have killed them. I am the cause of their deaths.'

Silence descended like a heavy cloak, swathing and stifling all sound. Severus could not hold the steady emerald gaze of the younger man and he dropped his head almost shamefully, the strands of dark hair falling forward to hide his face.

His chest collapsed onto itself and he withdrew into his seat, dragging his heavy arms to lie limply in his lap. He took a shaky breath, which he let out shakily.

'Release me, Harry,' he whispered softly. So softly that Harry had to strain to hear him. Severus's tone had no longer the seductive silkiness. It was coarse, and dry; the tone desperate.

'Release me from my hell. Release me from this burden, from this guilt. My hands are stained with the blood of the innocent and the pure, and no amount of washing can cleanse them. I can feel the dried blood, like caked copper, like red rust, clinging to the underside of my nails. I can feel their eyes; they condemn me for my foolish actions.

'Open the door to my cell. Let me out of this place of torment. Forgive me, _please_.' The last few words came out in an anguished plea and Severus forced himself to look up, to meet Harry eye to eye.

'I cannot do that, sir,' Harry whispered softly, almost gently. Severus stiffened, but Harry continued quickly. 'I cannot remove your guilt. I cannot forgive you, because there isn't anything for me to forgive in the first place.'

The quietly spoken statement startled the other wizard. 'What do you mean? Have you not heard a word of my confessions? I am to blame! I gave the Dark Lord information that lead to the cold-blooded murder of your parents and I-'

'-And you have paid for it,' interrupted Harry impatiently. 'You regret your actions; you dug your grave and buried yourself in guilt. And you have stubbornly remained in this crypt of culpability, even though others have extended their understanding and forgiveness!'

'Stop giving me excuses for myself!' Severus snarled. To his shame, Severus felt the sting of frustrated tears prickling his eyelids. He jumped from his seat and turned away from Harry.

A tense moment passed and the Potions Master heard a tired sigh.

'Your role as messenger was not the only factor that made things as they are. I admit that you were the catalyst, but things could have turned out very differently, even with you delivering the prophecy.'

Severus turned on his heel to stare at the young man seated in the large wingchair. He hesitated for a moment when Harry gestured for him to retake his seat, but then sank slowly into the seat. He watched Harry warily.

'Things could have turned out very differently,' Harry repeated. He allowed a ghost of a smile to flitter across his pale face. 'For example, Neville Longbottom could be here right now in my stead, having a heart to heart with you.'

'Merlin forbid!' Severus said aloud, before he could help himself.

Harry chuckled lowly before all mirth fell away and his expression became serious once more. 'It's true, you know. The prophecy – as are all prophecies, I suspect – is annoyingly cryptic and can be interpreted in more than one way.

'_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ..._

'The two of us – Neville and me, I mean – we were both born at the end of July. We both fit the bill. But then the prophecy continues with;

'_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal. _

'Do you see? Voldemort could have chosen Neville over me. It was _his _choice. _He_ chose _me_, _he_ marked _me_ as his equal. You may claim to be the one to cause the death of my parents, sir. You may insist on carrying that burden, but the truth remains is that that title of murderer is reserved only for the one who raised his wand against my parents. I blame the wizard who used the Unforgivable. I blame him, and only him. I blame Voldemort. I blame him for every death, for all the pain every single witch or wizard suffered in his hands.'

Severus studied the young man sitting opposite him intently with his inky black eyes. There was such determination in the very posture of the wizard, of the grim line of his lips, of the square shoulders, and the hard light in his eyes that cried for some form of vengeance and justice.

In was at that moment that Severus looked past all previous prejudice and discovered the attributes that placed Harry Potter into Gryffindor. Harry was the very epitome of courage and bravery. Boldness wrapped in a fair sense of justice and fairness. A golden lion that stood for all that was good, pure, and right.

Godric Gryffindor reincarnated, almost.

Did Harry realise just how impossible the task in front of him seemed? How can he, with a handful of wizards and witches who are entirely willing to sacrifice everything, who truly seem to understand the full implications that will befall the world should Fortune decide to turn the other way; bring the magical world firmly back into the Light? How can he stand against the vast and intricate network of spies and the countless supporters of the Dark Lord who sleep with their eyes open, who truly believe that purebloods are superior?

It is so hard to believe, so hard to put pure faith into such a charge. Severus could scarcely dare to put all his trust into this one belief that Harry would end it all.

When he compared himself to the younger wizard, when he compared and weighed his years of experiences against the other man, a part of Severus – the part that so adamantly called itself the _logical _part – declared that such a task was doomed to failure; that when the Final Battle did come about, the only outcome of such a thing was that the world would be imminent defeat of the Light and then the subsequent systematic collapse of order.

And yet the Prophecy proclaimed otherwise. Was it really Harry's destiny? Is it his fate?

So many wizards and witches placed great weight and faith in the young man.

But that was it, wasn't it?

Faith.

He looked and Harry and for the first time, really saw. And it was at that moment that Severus Snape felt all his doubts washed away when he saw the steely glint of determination in the sparkling emerald eyes.

'I…' Severus faltered, unsure as to how to voice his thoughts. 'I…I must thank you.'

Harry looked surprised. 'For what?'

'For telling me this. For opening my eyes and forcing me to reconsider my opinion of you… And also for helping me see the chains of the manacles that were of my own forging… and also… and also for hope.'

The young wizard shook his head but he was grinning. 'No, sir; do not thank me. I merely showed you your own restraints. You were the one who set yourself free.'

Severus bowed his head, not in shame at the gentle rebuke, but in humble acknowledgement.

A thought - a memory - rose from the back of the Potion Master's mind. It must have translated to his body language because Harry lifted a brow in silent query.

'Harry…' he said quietly, suddenly very aware of how his weariness showed in the hoarseness of his voice. 'Harry, do you really mean it when you said that you only blame Vold-' he stopped himself, still unable to bring himself to speak the dreaded name aloud, 'the Dark Lord?'

The hesitancy of the query made Harry suspicious and he narrowed his eyes, studying him shrewdly. 'Why do you ask me again?'

'I ask because I must know.'

'Sir, please-'

'-It's Draco.' Severus said, cutting in. He registered the dark expression on Harry's face and hastened to finish. 'He has recently discovered where his true loyalties lie-'

'-with Voldemort, yes, _that _is apparent enough.' Harry spat angrily.

Severus's heart sank at the cold finality of the younger man's tone.

'He has changed, Harry.'

'He is a Malfoy and a Slytherin. Ill faith'd snakes do not change the color of their skin.'

'Harry, please. I am aware of the animosity between the two of you, but I ask that you forget the past-'

'I can't just pretend that all those years didn't happen, Snape!' Harry shouted, springing from his seat. His fists were clenched into tight balls and his whole frame shook with anger. 'I can't do it,' he hissed through his teeth, his tone laced with hatred. 'I can't just "forget the past"…and I don't think I can ever forgive Malfoy for what he did.'

There was a very tense pause. Severus held the blazing gaze and stood carefully. He closed the small distance between the two of them and placed his hands in a placating manner on Harry's shoulders.

'You forgave me my wrongs. Can you not find it within you to forgive the young Malfoy?'

The muscles in Harry's shoulders slumped and tensed and then relaxed again, and he dropped his head. He took a few gulping breaths and Severus felt the young man tremble, overwrought with an overflow of emotions.

'I… I don't _know_, Severus. I really don't,' Harry murmured softly, not looking up. 'What he did is close to unforgiveable, if not unforgiveable itself. He made his choice; he made his choice to be the slave, only to find too late that he cannot obey the master. He did _things_ that in itself is a crime against the very foundations of humanity, and he has rendered to pieces the thin thread of trust I had for him.

And _now _after all the damage has been done, after the ashes and dust have just begin to settle, after the aftermath, he wants to step over to this side again?

Will he, at the first sign of trouble on this field, scramble back over the fence?

Can you tell me, sir? Can you tell me if he would betray us again? Can you tell me that I should trust him?'

Harry lifted his eyes, gazing with eyes that were filled with hurt, anger and confusion. Severus gripped the thin shoulders tightly before letting go.

'I cannot tell you anything. I am no oracle or prophet, Harry, that I should be able to tell that the future will unfold in such ways. Neither am I in any position to tell you that you _must _or _should _forgive anyone.

'But I will ask you to consider pardoning the man, as he seems sincere in the want to return to the Light.'

Severus paused, before shaking his head, a thoughtful look crossing his expression. 'I don't know if anyone has mentioned this to you, but you act as a foil to Draco, and he to you. You are each other's mirror; so alike in some ways, yet completely different. You can consider him your dark mirror, if you like; your dark reflection.

'You may very well lament the fact that the fulfillment Prophecy and the whole business of the Dark Lord is your _destiny_; that your path has already been carved out for you. And all you need to do is walk it…of course, with the weight of High Expectations on your shoulders, no doubt.

'Draco's situation is similar; from the moment he drew in his first breath, his whole life was planned for him. His whole life and beyond. He was a clean slate which Lucius took a chalk to, to write the equations of the future. The Draco you knew was shaped and styled by his father. The Draco you have yet to meet is a young man who has just broken free of his mold…

'I will not force your clemency, Harry.'

'No,' Harry agreed, 'but you have laid out in the light for me certain things that I would not have seen before. I… Merlin, there is so many things to consider now.' Harry shook his head slowly, as if in a daze. 'Should he be blamed for his breeding and his father's teachings? Or should he be forgiven his vice and his wrongdoings because he is not entirely to blame?'

Harry paused to look up at the older wizard. 'I am not sure if I have the capacity in me to forgive Malfoy, if only for the unselfish reason that what he did was monstrous and affected a great many of my friends personally.

'So forgive _me_ if I find that I cannot grant him forgiveness.'

Severus's face was an expressionless mask, but there was a tinge of sadness lingering about his dark eyes. He nodded once - a quick jerk of the head – to acknowledge Harry's words. He looked away awkwardly, turning his head in the pretence of having just remembered a detail. Severus motioned to the line of bottled potions on the table.

'Those potions on the table are for Miss Granger. I've printed labels for each potion. I have also left a scroll of parchment detailed with the proper dosages of which potion for her. Be sure to give them to her accordingly, at the proper times.'

'Why can't you administer them to her yourself?' asked a suddenly nervous Harry as he took in the array of potions. 'I don't want to accidentally give her the wrong thing!'

Severus arched an eyebrow and he drew on his classroom persona, straightening has back and folding his arms tightly across his chest. 'At last, you acknowledge that you posses less intelligence than a scrambled Grindylow.' He smirked and there was an amused glint in his eyes.

The heavy mood from the previous topic of discussion has been lifted.

He let his arms drop to his sides and he cocked his head. 'Come, Harry, surely you can follow a set of simple instructions? It is not sufficient proof that I trust that you are competent enough to do this task?'

'Thank you, I think,' muttered Harry dryly. 'Why must you Slytherins wrap your compliments in almost-insults?'

'To throw Gryffindors off balance.'

'I perceive another Slytherin tactic; distraction. I refuse to be derailed, so I ask again, why can't you administer them to her yourself?'

Severus smiled genuinely. 'You are observant enough – I'll make a Slytherin out of you yet!'

Harry titled his head and said rather nonchalantly, 'Well, considering that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting me in your house, sir, I think I have enough Slytherin qualities.' He smirked devilishly at the look of utter disbelief in the Slytherin's Head of House's face. 'I kid you not,' Harry assured, not unkindly.

The ability to speak fled the Potions Master and all he could do was to gape at the younger wizard.

'But let us return to the matter at hand, sir. Please answer the question,' Harry said quickly, when it was apparent that the shock was wearing off.

Severus narrowed his eyes intently at his ex-student, studying him. His close scrutiny traveled to the scar on his forehead and lingered there for a moment. 'I suppose, bearing in mind the role you played in defeating the Dark Lord when you were but a child, that you being in the house infamous for producing dark witches and wizards was not for the best… I feel like I should laugh at the irony… But if you were fit for Salazar's house, may I ask; why then were you sorted to the lion's house?'

'Choice. While the Sorting Hat examines our strengths and our weaknesses, and decides which house we should belong to, the _final_ decision actually lies with us. We can accept its guidance, or we choose our own paths'

He cleared his throat. 'Sir? The potions?' Harry prompted again.

'Ahhh, you are not to be sidetracked, I see. Very well. I cannot give Granger the potions myself but for the simple reason is that I will not be here to do it. As soon as the light of sun touches the fringe of night, I must return to the side of the Dark Lord. Come morn, I will don my Death Eater's mask and cloak and draw on my role of the loyal servant.' Severus laced his last sentence with bitterness.

'You cannot be serious!' Harry exclaimed. 'Surely he'd know that you were the one who betrayed him? That you returned Hermione to us!'

'He does not know, nor will know for another forty-eight hours yet, that Granger is no longer in her holding room,' Severus said slowly.

'What do you mean he won't know? He _will _hear that she is missing.'

Severus shook his head. 'He will not, because Miss Granger is still in her cell.'

'What are you saying? What the hell do you mean by that? She's _here_! You don't mean that you're going to bring her back to him? I won't allow it! I'll-'

'Calm yourself, boy.' Severus held of a hand to placate the irate Harry. 'You mistake my meaning. He won't know because the fools he has set to guard the room will not sense anything amiss, since they can see Granger – no, who they_ perceive _to be Granger - moving about inside.' Seeing that Harry's face twisted with confusion, Severus continued to clarify the situation, 'It's Draco. I have prepared for him a vial containing Polyjuice potion and a strand of Granger's hair… he has agreed to temporarily take the form of Miss Granger.'

* * *

_To be continued…_

**Note: **This is a pretty short chapter, compared to the previous ones. But I thought I'd end here because it seemed like a good place to stop.

Feedback much appreciated!


	4. II: Memoriae

**IMPORTANT NOTE (PLEASE READ):** This is not a chronologically ordered fic. Rather, it is a situation based one, with a strong character-centric narration. This piece of fiction _cannot_ be perceived coherently if one does not take into appreciation the _entirety _of the work. This fic is broken into a few parts, each having their own theme, central character and timeline. That said, this is where the second part of _Porcelain Doll_ begins in earnest; a seemingly unrelated sidetrack of another character, which in this case happens _before_ the previous three chapters.

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for your infinite patience!  
This is undoubtedly the hardest chapter to put down into words, considering it encompassing multifaceted emotions on so many different levels. I also discovered that Draco is an extremely hard character to control; for some reason he insists on disregarding my plans for him and carves his own path. The clashing of our wills resulted in many tantrums, until I finally gave in somewhat and allowed him some slack on his leash.  
Wrestling rebellious muses aside, I'm becoming afraid that the more time I spend contemplating the future of the characters in my fanfic, the more I will be tempted to add in more twists, turns, and evil cliffhangers.  
And to my dismay, I found that I had to somewhat break my original narrative plan for this story (whereby the character-centric third person narrative flows smoothly from one character to another), since I decided that it would be a little difficult to handle the ever expanding plots and subplots happening within the story.

**Disclaimer: **I do not assume any legal liability of the characters or settings here. All creative property belongs to JKR, excluding the plot to this fic. I seek no monetary gains and all recognisable claim of JKR is intended for entertainment use only and will be returned safe and sound.

**Dedication:** I hereby dedicate this chapter to the wonderful **cmwinters **& **CareBearErin**, for without them, I doubt that this chapter would be out at all.  
**cmwinters**'s comments and messages pushed me back into action, after my long spell of inactivity. She reminded me of how much I loved this story and the amount of love and meticulous planning I had poured into it.  
**CareBearErin** has been one of my most loyal readers and reviewers, and I really cherish all her reviews, because they're more than just a superficial comments and she makes me want to strive to improve myself.

And now, the long overdue chapter:

* * *

**Porcelain Doll  
**_II. Memoriae  
_(Record of the Past)

He led her through the cold stone passage, down winding paths, taking so many turns that she was soon disorientated. But always, he kept a firm grip on her arm, his fingers wrapped so tightly around her upper arm that it would leave an ugly purple bruise later.

She had shied away from his touch at first. He had struck across her face then, in his impatience. He hit her so hard that he reopened the deep cut on her cheek that was just beginning to heal, and split open her lip. When he reached for her again, she did not pull away.

She followed him willingly enough, shuffling after him. His steely grip did not loosen; his life would be forfeit if she escaped.

It was completely dark in the passage. There were no torches in the brackets to light the way, not even the soft glowing light of a dying fire. She stumbled almost constantly, her lack of vision making it even harder for her to keep her balance.

The only thing that kept her from blindly walking into a wall, were the curt instructions barked out by her escort and the painful grip of his guiding hand.

She muffled a curse when she tripped and fell, tearing her arm from his vice grip. He waited impatiently for her to get up, swishing the heavy material of his thick midnight cloak around his legs irritably. But it was an impossible feat for her; her arms being bound tightly behind her back as they were.

Draco sighed in annoyance and transferred the enchanted light to his other hand. He bent down and wrapped a strong arm around her waist, ignoring the shudder that ran down her frame, and easily lifted her and set her on her feet.

He held the light source up to her face and was a little disconcerted by the way the brown eyes seemed to stare directly through him.

'I can't see where I'm going,' she said, almost petulantly. But there were tears. Tears of pain, frustration, anger… and the tears that showed her struggle to fight off the overwhelming terror and despair that threatened to engulf her. The tear tracks cleared a path through the grime and blood that smeared her cheeks.

He reached up automatically, his fingertip almost touching her broken skin, to brush away the sparkling gems. He caught himself in time; he could not afford this slip.

Instead, he swung, the back of his hand connecting with her cheek with a painful crack. He sneered, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

'Yes, the _Hand of Glory_ only lights the way for the bearer. I would have thought _you _of all people should know that, know-it-all. Your constant stumbling is trying my patience, Granger… But I think I like having you at this disadvantage.'

He took her arm roughly and started to guide her again.

'Pick up the pace; the Dark Lord is waiting.'

She gasped and swung to face him, guided by the projection of his voice, and the edges of her cinnamon curls flared out to brushed his cheek at her sharp movement.

'Are you really going to take me to him?' she asked quietly.

For a moment, Draco was at a lost; she had sounded so afraid, so pitiful, and her wide fearful eyes drove a shard of compassion into his heart. She knew that this hour might very well be her last. It disconcerted him that she was so obviously terrified; so…so _un-Gryffindor_…so very lacking in the famous attributes of her House.

He shook himself mentally and grunted unpolishedly.

'Yes,' he said, his tone gruff. He pushed her in front of him, making her stumble as she tried to regain her balance. 'I think he has planned something for you.'

His palm was on the small of her back and he easily felt the tremors that shook her petite frame. He could smell her sweat and fear wafting in the chilly air. It was intoxicating, and he found himself feeding hungrily on the fear, feeling the exultant rush of power through his veins.

Draco leaned forward, his lips brushing the nape of her neck. He pressed a small kiss on her earlobe.

'Afraid?' he breathed silkily into her ear.

She stood motionless before a small dry sob escaped her lips.

'A little,' was her whispered admission.

'Only a little?' he purred, his warm breath filling her ear. His hand dropped to rest on her waist, his thumb rubbing small circles, caressing her hip bone with such seductive gentleness.

She shivered violently, but didn't pull away. 'I'm terrified,' she amended softly, turning her head away.

Suddenly, all previous tenderness was gone. He grasped her shoulder, digging his fingers painfully into the muscles of her shoulders, and turned her around to face him. She hung her head, unwilling to allow him a glimpse of her face. He tucked his thumb under her chin and forced her to look up. He drew in a sharp breath and took a half-step back when he saw the unshed tears sparkling in her brown depths.

'Please, Malfoy… Draco… _please_…let me go…'

The hand that held the enchanted light source shook, and he replied, his voice unsteady. 'I can't, Hermione… I'm sorry… really… but I _can't._'

'Why?'

Her gaze shifted and seemed to focus on his face, staring at him straight in the eyes, even though it was impossible for her to even gauge the distance between them in the relative darkness that handicapped her. She stood quietly, her brown eyes wide and sad, the corners of her bow-shaped lips drooping. Finally, she turned away.

They continued in verbal silence. The only sounds to disturb the stillness were their scuffling steps and their breathing that grew heavier, as the ground gradually tilted to a steep incline.

The uphill trek seemed to go on for hours until Draco directed her to a stop.

'We're here.'

He brushed past her brusquely, ignoring the pang of… _guilt? Remorse?…_ - he couldn't afford to feel either - that stabbed him when he heard a dry sob of fear push past her cracked lips. He laid his hand on the cold metal of the door handle, wrestling with the tumult of thought and feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him.

'Draco…' she breathed quietly, in a sad pleading way.

He gripped the handle harder when the unspoken plea almost tipped the balance of the internal battle raging inside him. Draco drew in a breath, suddenly aware that he had forgotten to breathe and his lungs were empty.

'I'm really sorry for this, Hermione,' he murmured so softly that the words were quickly smoldered by the oppressively dank and heavy air, and she did not hear them, 'but some of us are forced to wear the mask we most despise.'

He pushed the door open.

The large room was sparsely decorated. A quick glance around the room showed that while the furnishings in the room may have been quite expensive, they showed signs that they have been neglected for years. The upholstery showed large moth-eaten holes, and every visible surface of the room was coated in a thick layer of dust and rat droppings. A carpet, so coated in dirt and its colours so faded that it looked a dull and listless grey. Thread-bare curtains of a once rich dark red hung limply, drawn across the windows.

Sitting in a straight-backed chair as if it were a throne, menacing and regal, was Lord Voldemort. His thin dark wand was laid casually across his lap. One pale hand was resting lightly in the armrest, his skin throwing a sharp contrast to the almost black colour tone of the wood. The skeletal-like fingers of his other hand were idly scratching the head of a giant snake, whose body was coiled around his legs.

Draco all but dragged the young woman to the powerful dark wizard. They approached the imposing figure, and stopped a few yards away.

'Kneel,' Draco whispered harshly, before driving Hermione to her knees. He himself bowed low to his lord in deference, his white-blonde fringe brushing his forehead and veiling his silver eyes.

'My Lord.'

Lord Voldemort was silent as he contemplated the scene before him. 'So, Draco, you have brought me Potter's mudblood friend?'

'Yes, my Lord,' murmured the young man, before daring a glance up. The Dark Lord's gaze was not on him, however. His hooded red eyes were on the kneeling witch. She trembled under the coldness of his stare, and made a half-hearted attempt to get up.

'Stay on your knees, mudblood wench.' Voldemort sneered, his thin lips stretching to expose teeth that were sharp and pointed. 'It is time you learned your place; kneeling at the feet of others far superior than the pitiful excuse of your existence.'

A sudden unexplainable calmness doused Hermione as his words. The fear and hatred raging inside her body fell away, and deep within her core, she felt a plain peacefulness. She felt as if she was only an observer, watching events unfolding with mild interest.

'But you are a half-blood...,' she murmured softly, her mind still wrapped in an intoxicating cloud of calm. Somewhere from the back of her mind, a voice started screaming a shrill warning. Hazily, eyes unfocused, she lifted her chin to meet his smoldering gaze. And as suddenly as the blanket of calm was thrown over her, it was burned away by the fire in his eyes. She flinched and was compelled to look away quickly.

She cried out when Draco kicked her soundly in the side. 'How dare you! He is the heir of Salazar Slytherin! He has cleansed himself of his impurity!' Draco hissed angrily, driving his metal shod boot into her stomach.

Voldemort took a step back and watched impassively for a moment, before staying the angered Malfoy with a hand. Draco has breathing heavily through his nose, his fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles shone white.

The tall wizard stared down at Hermione, who lay curled on her side and gasping, tears wetting her cheeks.

'Impudence, young witch. You will learn your place.'

He titled his snake-like head at the blonde man, directing his command to him. 'Leave us.'

When Draco made no move to obey immediately, the older wizard raised his wand.

'_Crucio._

'Do you doubt my ability in handling a mudblood whore, Draco?' Voldemort purred, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

'N…No, my L…Lord,' Draco forced out, between gasps of agony. He clenched his jaw tightly and balled his hands into fists as he struggled not to scream aloud at the pain sharp twisting pain in his body. Voldemort watched dispassionately for a moment, and just as it seemed that Draco would break and a scream would tear loose, he released him from the spell's hold.

'Get out,' he commanded coldly, following Draco with his glinting red eyes as the young man stumbled out of the room, his legs barely able to support his weight after the disciplining session.

At the door, Draco paused and turned, on white hand gripping the ornate doorknob for a measure of support and he gingerly nursed his bloody lips - he had bitten his lips in his attempt to maintain his silence - with the back of other hand which was shaking badly. His gaze flicked from his Master's to briefly catch the eye of the terrified witch.

Through the haze of terror that blanketed her mind, Hermione thought she had caught the myriad of feelings that flitted so quickly across the pale face. But all too quickly, too quickly for her to even begin her analysis; his expression settled into an impassive mask that was the trade mark of the House of Slytherin, and Hermione was not sure if she had imagined it all.

Then, sensing the displeasure radiating from the Dark Lord, he broke eye contact and bowed low before hastily exiting the room.

Voldemort's attention fell once more on her as soon as the door clicked shut behind Draco. He stood unmoving as studied her, almost like a menacing cold marble statue as he - with his great height - towered over her. The intensity with which he studied her with his burning gaze made her feel as if her skin had caught aflame. Hermione could not help but shiver violently when he pinned her with his stare that seemed to penetrate deep into her soul to taint it with its touch. She tried vainly to blink, tried to twist her head away..._anything_ to break away from staring into the pitiless abyss, but she was powerless, pinned helpless by his livid gaze.

She broke out suddenly in cold sweat, trembling as tendrils of his consciousness touched hers. She could feel him hovering just outside the mental barriers that she had instinctively put up. She tensed herself for the invasion of her mind as he none too gently tested its strength against his will.

Hermione felt him draw back. She knew it was not because he was retreating however, but to gather strength to batter down her barriers in a vicious strike, as a fighter would pull back his fist for the final blow.

Her perspiration dripped into her eyes, stinging them painfully. And yet, still she could not look away.

A malicious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was a master Legimens. She knew this. There was no need for this display; for his intent to invade her mind. He could slip in, slithering into the cracks of her mind.

If anything, this was to demonstrate his will and power.

She felt a prickling at the base of her skull as he drew in his power, his fearsome magic crackling the air around them. She didn't realised she was whimpering apprehensively until his grin widened to reveal strangely pointed teeth.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked; his red eye boring into hers.

…and then she registered a sound so startling, so odd, that it took her a few moments to properly identify its source; he was chuckling, but there was no benevolent mirth in his eyes. He reached up with his thin white hand, his bony fingers hovering barely an inch from her face. He gave a feral smile and raked a nail slowly across her bottom lip, drawing blood.

She stood stock still, unable to move, watching with horrified fascination as he brought his digit - bright red with her blood - to his lips. His tongue darted out to take an experimental lick. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep lungful of air, his slits for nostril flaring.

'I can taste your impurity, mudblood,' he murmured, eyes closed.

There was a small intake of breath from Hermione, when his eyes snapped opened and she caught sight of the swirling fires within. He smiled languidly at her before cocking his head to the side and hissed in Parseltongue under his breath. The strange whispery language - that seemed to be too unnatural for any man to manage - sent icy chills down her spine and she shuddered.

The tiny hairs on the back of Hermione's neck prickled when there was an answering hiss from behind her, from the foot of the throne. Tearing her gaze at last from the Dark Lord, she forced herself to master the control of her body and she turned her head slowly to look over her shoulder, half dreading the sight that would be sure to greet her eyes.

Nagini, who had been watching the unfolding events with interest, unwound her great body from around the legs of the chair. Her long black tongue flicked the air, tasting it; once…twice…

Voldemort spat a brusque command and Nagini reared her head, easily holding a length of her long body off the ground, towering far above Hermione.

Hermione emitted a strangled moan of fright and leapt to the side when the familiar, her scaled body swaying in the seductive serpentine manner, slithered to her master's side. Nagini twisted her head, watching the young woman with one eye. She pushed her head into the palm of the wizard, demanding attention. The tip of her tail swept lazily from side to side with obvious satisfaction when Voldemort scratched the broad area between her reptilian slit eyes.

Hermione failed to suppress her shudders when the Dark Lord started to converse with his familiar - in hisses and spits - in the strangely terrifying tongue of the snakes. Nagini replied, swinging her great head slowly from side to side, and gave Voldemort's marble hand a loving lick with her black forked tongue, before sliding to Hermione's side. The giant snake turned her head to the side, studying the witch with one golden eye.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Hermione took a quick step backwards, and tripped over Nagini's considerable length. In a flash, the serpent had wound herself around Hermione's tiny body, drawing so tightly that there were several sharp cracks as half a dozen ribs surrendered to the squeezing pressure. The air forced the air from her crushed lungs, Hermione could hardly whimper. And as Nagini slowly drew tighter and tighter around her torso, the dark fringes of unconsciousness danced across her vision.

Hermione spiralled into oblivion, with the sounds of the Dark Lord's cold laughter ringing in her ears, already intermingling with the screams of her nightmares.

_'Get out of my house! I'll call the police! Here, what do you thin-'_

_'Avada Kedavra!' _

_'No!'_

_'Mum! Get away from them, get out! __Stupefy!'_

_One of their numbers went down, but already another had stepped over his prostrate body, a wand in hand._

_Desperate, she flung a curse at him, but he ducked quickly and it flew harmlessly over his head. The cowl of his cloak fell to his shoulders and involuntarily, she jerked back in recognition at the sight of the head of blonde hair._

_Another Death Eater issued a command, his voice harsh and grating. 'Kill them all!'_

_The blonde follower raised his wand, tip pointed towards her mother._

_'Mum!' She cried in warning, even as she flicked her wrist to conjure a shielding charm around her mother, but there was no way to stop a Killing Curse._

_'Avada Kedavra!'_

* * *

In the dark stone hallway once more, Draco pushed his back against the wall, and let his head fall back in frustration. He drew his fingers into tight fists, gritting his teeth as he tried to drive away the guilt and the numbing horror that possessed his body, crushing his chest and making it hard for him to draw breath. 

Shaking with conflicting emotions, he struggled to calm himself and chain the tumult of feelings within his mind.

_'Please, Malfoy… Draco… please…let me go…' _

He shuddered as he forced his lungs to draw in breath. He bit down hard on his tongue until his mouth filled it the warm coppery taste of blood. He swallowed reflexively and grimaced. His fists were clenched so tightly, the half-moons of his nails driven so deep into this palms that they drew blood.

'Father,' he apostrophised, spitting out the two syllables with venom, feeling the terrible loathing and anger roiling in his veins when he remembered the events earlier that evening. His heart has pounding, and he could hear the roar of his blood rushing through his head. 'Oh, if only you knew what exactly it is you have done,' he muttered bitterly, eyes still shut. 'If you knew what you have _undone.'_

_He smiled down at her, and she grinned reflexively back, her expression warm and open. _

_It really was amazing, he marvelled to himself as he helped settle her cloak around her shoulders, gently disentangling some of her wild mane that had gotten entwined around the clasp; how it came to this. How making this decision to join the side that was against all his fundamental upbringing and teachings, could result in this wonderful relaxed feeling of close friendliness, unhindered by any wariness. _

_Still smiling, he gallantly offered his arm to her, and she immediately accepted, threading her arm through his. _

_'Shall we?' _

_She poked his side. 'Let's go!' _

_She allowed herself to be led outside into the cool night air. They both paused for a moment, enjoying the feel of the breeze as it swept the front lawn. _

_Feeling like she was being watched, Hermione half-turned, to look up the first-storey window of Grimmauld Place. Her shift of attention drew Draco's interest, and he too turned to the old house. _

_Harry stared down at the pair, an unreadable expression on his face. Draco forced himself to meet his unwavering stare. He found himself releasing a tense breath he didn't know he held, when Harry nodded ever so slightly in his direction. _

_At that moment, Neville appeared over Harry's shoulder, his round pink face crunched into a grin when he saw Hermione. He waved energetically, inciting the witch to smile and wave back. _

Draco wrestled with the memories uncurling in a rush within him, knowing that he didn't have time to remember the all the details of the night's happenings; that he had better master his thoughts and hide any that were "unsuitable" behind his Death Eater's alter ego, before the Dark Lord punctured his occlumency shield.

But it was proving extremely difficult, as the memory of the recent betrayal left him reeling, reducing his normally collected self in a jumbled mess of horror, anger and guilt. He could feel a squeezing sensation on his throat, as if he was being strangled by the tumult of his untamed thoughts. Choking and wheezing, he felt his stomach clench horribly, and he could taste the bitter-sourness of bile at the back of his mouth.

_'…It feels good, you know? Sitting here with you… It's hard to explain, but it's strange that I should feel so comfortable with you, with the others, considering what I am.' He looked away, unwilling to risk seeing the expression on her face. _

_The cold steel-light of the moon touched his face, deepening the shadows around his eyes, giving him a gaunt, tired appearance. _

_'How can you even stand to look at me, Hermione?' he asked quietly. An expression of acute guilt flashed across his face, and she felt her insides twist in pain, briefly forced to remember her own sorrow. _

_She closed her eyes, feeling the sting of tears under her lids. The pain of loss griped her chest, clenching around her heart that it was painful to breathe, painful to remember, painful to live. She was trembling, but it was not because of the cold. _

_A lonely cry of a wolf sounded in the distance, the quality of the mournful wail carried by the winds sounded almost human…like a wordless cry of grief. _

_It sounded so painfully familiar, yet utterly foreign at the same time. _

_Hidden somewhere in the rise and fall of the eerie call, was something that triggered the surfacing of memories Hermione was not quite ready to face; it was too soon, everything was terribly raw and her emotional wounds had not even begun to heal yet. _

_The front door exploded and through the swirling fog that was the trailing wisps of magic and the splinters of wood, stepped half a dozen Death Eaters. They contrasted horribly with the cheerful tones of the room; tall figures clad in forbidding black. _

'_Get out of my house! I'll call the police! Here, what do you thin-'_

_She roused herself from the stifling envelope of her memories, struggling against the pull of the past, feeling the dull throbbing of each heartbeat within her. She pushed aside her growing emotional turmoil, and turned instead to stare at her companion. _

_'How can you stand being close to me? To be in the same room, to breathe the same air? I am like poison and everything I touch will be tainted and will wither and then die. _

_'Merlin, the things I have done! There are things about me of which you have no idea, Mione, and I don't ever want you to know… but I can hardly consider myself human anymore. You see these hands? Here, hold them.' He pushed his cold hands between her palms. 'You hold the hands of a Death Eater… a murderer, a torturer. The hands of an apprentice to the Dark Arts.' His tone was fervent, the look in his eyes were wild. _

_'You sound as if you're describing a monster.' _

_'Am I not, Hermione? Am I not monster? A depraved creature? I want to take it all back. I can't stand feeling this way. I'm sorry, Mione. I'm sorry. I can keep saying I'm sorry but it won't help a bit, because it's been done, and I can't go back and undo it. But if I could, I'd do it differently. I wouldn't be the useless coward, too afraid to take a stand. I'd save them, or die trying, I swear… I'm sorry… I'm sorry!' He was crying by this point, his voice hoarse through the tears. _

_'I could've done something; could've sent a warning. But I didn't! I don't know why I didn't do it…I just didn't think! Truly, Mione, it never occurred to me. And then it was happening all too fast, too fast to think, all I could do was react; and even then I reacted in the wrong way. Marionette on a string; mindless controllable thing. In quick flashes of green, it was over; the die has been rolled, the Unforgiveable has been cast!' He cried animatedly, the half-crazed light in his eyes showed his lost of control. _

_And quite suddenly, the wild energy left him and his shoulders sagged as if under a great weight. He breathed in haggard gasps. He drew in a shuddery breath and said hollowly, almost calmly, 'And now I turn to wash these claws in the bowl of Pontius Pilatus. Bitter poison is the taste of this responsibility. _

_'Never has there been anyone less worthy of absolution than I, wretched creature that I am.' _

_She had listened in silence, her head bowed and her dark curls hiding her expression. She still had his hands in hers, and gently, she pried his clenched fists open. Cupping one of his hands in hers, she lightly traced her index finger from the centre of this palm to the insides of his wrist. There, she placed a light kiss, and then repeated the same ritual on his other hand. _

_Draco felt her tears when they splashed onto his palms, pooling in the middle. _

'Ego te absolvo,' _she murmured quietly, her voice thick with the evidence of restrained emotion. _

_Draco felt as if his insides were rendered apart. He struggled, gasping for air as he felt himself overwhelmed by the magnitude of her gesture. 'Don't…! You can't- No…' _

_And then he broke. _

_His pent up emotions manifested itself in physical pain searing his heart. He couldn't breathe; he was being asphyxiated, he was drowning. Violent dry sobs wrecked his body, and his face crumpled in anguish, relief and self-loathing. He fought to control himself, just managing to force his burning lungs to function. _

_And then Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around his frame, and he shattered all over again. _

_She was crying hard too. They clung to each other, both too afraid to let go and fall to pieces. _

_'I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you…' She whispered over and over again, until the word melded together to form a soothing hum that calmed the tempest of feelings that raged in them both. _

_They remained as they were, their bodies pressed so closely against each other that the beating of their hearts became inseparable. _

_'You aren't a monster, Draco. Don't you ever say that,' she said so quietly into his chest that he almost didn't hear her. She felt him tense and she pulled back just far enough to be able to look up at his face. She met his gaze steadily. _

_ 'Monsters don't feel guilt,' she said. _

Drawing in a deep breath, he coerced himself to settle his thoughts and very carefully, he went through each of his recent memories, pushing aside all emotions as he replayed the past few hours in his head. Draco critically analysed each second; filtering some content, and then constructing scenarios to stitch it to the original fabric of his memories. Once satisfied at everything was in order, he drew in another deep breath through his nose, held it for a moment, and then exhaled through his parted lips.

'And thus I clothe myself in this villainy to play the Servant, when most I dream otherwise,' he murmured, a bitter frown on his forehead. 'But see, Hermione! This hated disguise I wear, I wear for you, whether you realise it or no.'

His frown disappeared and icy grey eyes snapped open, and his face a mask of cold maliciousness. He shifted, straightening his back and taking a half step away from the wall. A swift movement of his wand healed his broken lip. Lips twisting into a sneer, and he flicked a strand of blonde hair off his forehead impatiently.

When the dark oak door swung open a few minutes later, and Voldemort stalked through, Draco Malfoy was once more the composed aristocratic Death Eater.

He brought his right arm across his chest and rested his fist over his heart, and dipped his head. 'My lord.'

'Well, well, Draco,' the tall wizard purred. He extended a claw-like finger and tipped the young wizard's head up. 'You have pleased me greatly today, and I shall see that a befitting reward be dispensed upon you… Young Malfoy bringing back some dignity to his family's name… Your father must be proud.

'Come.' Voldemort commanded abruptly.

* * *

_To be continued… _

_Also, please check out some photomanipulations I did for this fic. Each chapter has a related picture, sort of like a "chapter art"._

_Remove the spaces.  
Chapter 1: http://i94. photobucket. com/albums/l112/emymsm/porcelain-doll/porcelaindollart1. png  
Chapter 2: __http://i94. photobucket. com/albums/l112/emymsm/porcelain-doll/porcelaindollart2. png  
Chapter 3: __http://i94. photobucket. com/albums/l112/emymsm/porcelain-doll/porcelaindollart3. png_


	5. II: Fastosus

**Author's Note**: Inexcusable, inexcusable! I am so very, very sorry this really overdue chapter and I humbly beg your pardon, dear readers! This has been sitting in my harddrive for months and frankly, I was unwilling to post this up because it's a really short chapter - I got stuck halfway with the narrative.

**Important note:** The structure of this fic is not one of the chronologically inclined. Timelines get cut and jumbled and stapled back together. Think of this fic as one that can only be viewed in its wholeness only when it is finally complete (which would happen eventually, I hope!)

I provide you, my dear readers, with character-centric narrations to build the story. I hope that this style of writing encourages you to _understand_ and perhaps on some level, to _empathise_ with those caught in such situations.

**Disclaimer: **I do not assume any legal liability of the characters or settings here. All creative property belongs to JKR, excluding the plot to this fic. I seek no monetary gains and all recognisable claim of JKR is intended for entertainment use only and will be returned safe and sound.

* * *

**Porcelain Doll**  
_Fastosus_  
(Pride)

He willed the coldness of his surroundings to seep through his cloak to touch his heart and harden it. With each step he took, following his master, Draco could feel the last vestiges of compassion wither away. He managed settled himself into this role of the subservient with such ease that it terrified him.

Should it not be harder? Should it not evoke some feeling of disgust or repulsion?

The truth was that this, all of it, was expected too often of him. Pureblood mentality had been drilled into the core of his being - and though he had managed to push aside the ridiculous prejudicial notions and broaden his mind as an individual for all those months with the Order - it was all too easy to let it rise to the surface again in a second, even though he tried to rationalise to himself that he was only using it as a shield, a necessary mask.

The Dark Lord glided across the uneven ground, and even with the thick soles of his shoes and long masterful strides, he moved in silence through the stone corridors. He drifted like an ominous black shroud of personified malevolence.

The torches in the brackets mounted on the walls sprang to life as Voldemort neared them, and then immediately went out after he strode past. This effect left only a circle of light wherever the two were. Ahead and behind of them, was darkness so complete that it threatened to smother the fringes of their lighted path.

'I am infinitely pleased, Draco. Indeed, I admit I had doubts of your capabilities as a spy within the Order, as Severus seemed to have some trouble reinstating himself within their ranks and to prove his loyalty to them.' Voldemort turned his head slightly to look down upon the blonde wizard, his red eyes glinting with approval.

'But perhaps some degree of your success is also owed to your father... and to Trefor, of course. He is willing enough to serve as your messenger, isn't he? How fortuitous to find another so willing to betray the Order, so willing to pass along crucial information when it seemed as if you cannot deliver them yourself.'

Draco felt his heartbeat stutter and the blood drain from his face. It was only his pureblood training, and the training his parents had pressed upon him when he was young; that a pureblood wizard may _never_ show surprise, for that will be taken as a sign of unforgiveable weakness among the other Dark wizards – that kept him from stumbling.

He was careful to maintain the same rhythm in his strides, keeping just behind his Lord's right shoulder. A mask of calm indifference smoothed his pale face. But inwardly, the young Malfoy's thoughts were flying around in such a flurry of panic that his Occlumency shields had some trouble restraining them.

_There had been another spy in the Order! One who has betrayed us!_ – his mind screamed over and over. He wrestled briefly with the shock and threw it against his Occlumency web, which immediately swallowed it. _Who was it? Who was it that had betrayed Hermione to the Death Eaters? For this spy had seemed content to send only the witch into the Dark Lord's clutches, and not reveal Severus's or my own duplicity._

_Is the spy collecting fodder to collect a favour later on?_

Draco shuddered despite his training, and cast a quick nonverbal Warming Charm on himself, trying to dispel the edges of the sharp chill gripping him.

At last, they reached the end of the tunnel, and Draco drew up to his master's shoulder. A solid stone wall blocked their way to the outside. The Dark wizard lifted his hand and with one unnaturally long finger, drew a series of runes onto the stone surface, murmuring softly to drop the magical wards placed there. A hole yawned on the wall, where the wizard had touched it. As Draco watched, the opening widened and stretched until it became large enough for them to step through it.

He bowed his head in deference and withdrew a step to the side so that the Dark Lord may step through first. Though he had kept his gaze trained to the ground, he could still feel the coldly approving glance of the dark wizard slid over him, before the tall wizard stepped through the opening.

The darkness of night outside was expelled by the acid green flames of an enchanted fire burning on a pyre at the centre of the clearing. Talking quietly in small gathered groups, were cloaked witches and wizards. When they caught sight of the Dark Lord however, they immediately fell silent and sank into deep bows and curtsies.

In the flickering flame light, Draco could see that the gathered Death Eaters tonight were dressed in their finest; tailored dress robes of extravagant material, exquisitely embroidered with the crests of old pureblood wizarding families, family heirlooms and gems glinting proudly at the base of their necks.

Draco's gaze swept around the clearing and he at once saw that the Death Eaters were assembled according to their own internal social hierarchy. Those that were in the inner circle, the Dark Lord's favoured servants, stood at the forefront. Within their richly garbed ranks, Draco caught the eye of Severus who drifted just behind Rabastan Lestrange. He felt a fierce stab of Legilimency, but it was unable to sear its way completely past Draco's thick Occlumency barriers. The blonde wizard blinked, surprised at both the assault and the strength behind it.

Aware that others were watching him, Draco tried to be inconspicuous in his gestures and tilted his head questioningly to the side. He received in return a dark glare with such intense malevolence that it unsettled him. He forced his gaze away from the feral expression on Severus' countenance, to glance cursory at the faces of the Death Eaters.

Beyond the more influential members of Voldemort's followers were witches and wizards, some were purebloods too, but lacking the power of calling themselves Old Bloods. They were those whose family name had fallen out of wizarding prominence and influence. Others were assigned to this rank for somewhere along the line had accepted a witch or wizard or less than pure wizard ancestry.

And then standing beyond them where outcasts of even the Dark Lord's supporters; the dredges of wizarding society, the drones; the disfavoured and the scorned. Their presences were only tolerated because they were necessary to perform the less than tasteful tasks. They were the ones to get their hands and wands dirty first.

Mingling amongst these drones were the werewolf packs, assigned to this group only because they were no longer of pure wizarding blood. They were warily treated with grudging respect; an insult or careless comment to a single werewolf would bring the protective anger of the entire pack.

Draco felt his lips curling in distaste when he spied Peter Pettigrew in the group. He gave Draco a feeble wave, blinking his watery eyes rapidly. He dropped his hand quickly and flushed, before shuffling to duck behind Fenrir Greyback.

Draco slid into place between his parents. His mother reached out to touch her trembling hand on his left shoulder, and Draco titled his head to glance at her drawn white face from the corner of his eyes. He bowed his head and brushed his fingers briefly across her knuckles, trying to assure her; _I am fine, Mother._ She gave him quick squeeze, her fingers clutching convulsively, protectively - before she dropped her hand to her side. He straightened his posture immediately and hid his emotions under a stoic expression, sensing at his side, his mother doing the same.

'My loyal servants...' The Dark Lord's sibilant hiss was hardly above a whisper, yet it carried across the wide space, weighing with dangerous delight.

The Dark Lord swept to the only seat in the clearing; a dark throne-like structure carved of black stone, detailed with tracings of intertwining snakes inlaid in silver. He folded himself gracefully into the seat, and rested one elbow on the armrest, bringing up his hand to stroke his thin lips.

'My loyal servants, tonight be proud, feel the first taste of triumph, for in our clutches we have a treasure, one held so dear in the hearts of our enemies. Congratulate your own, my Death Eaters, congratulate Severus and Draco; for without them, Hermione Granger, Potter's Mudblood friend would be sleeping in her little room at Grimmauld.'

There was a muttering of surprise and an exclamation or two, before the hesitant smattering of applause started.

A hand descended on Draco's other shoulder and gripped him tightly. He turned to look up at his father, who was smiling... no, smirking proudly. There was a glint of fierce pride in his sharp grey eyes, and for a moment, the younger Malfoy felt a stab of... an undeterminable feeling twisting his gut.

'Well done, my son.'

And it was agony to stand there and listen to those words; to realise what it really took to wrestle those words from thin lips, what Draco must do, to earn the approval of Lucius Malfoy.

'Of course, father,' he replied coolly, ignoring prickling on the back of his neck from Severus's blazing glare.

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
